THE  LAMPLIGHTER 


By  MARIA  S.  CUMMINS 


Author  of  "MABEL  VAUGHAX,"  "EL 
FUREIDIS,"  "HAUNTED  HEARTS." 


A.  L.  HURT  COMPANY,   PUBLISHERS. 

NEW  YORK  j*  ^ 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 


CHAPTER  I. 


LIGHT    IX    IJAT1KXESS. 

''Good  God  !  to  think  upon  v.  child 

That  has  no  childish  days, 
No  careless  play,  no  frolics  wild, 
Xo  words  of  prayer  and  praise." 


IT  was  growing  dark  in  the  city.  Out  in  the  open 
country  it  would  be  light  for  haif-an-hour  or  more;  hut 
in  the  streets  it  was  already  dusk.  Upon  the  wooden 
doorstep  of  a  low-roofed,  dark,  and  unwholesome-looking 
house,  sat  a  little  girl,  earnestly  gazing  up  the  street.  The 
house-door  behind  her  was  close  to  the  sidewalk;  and  the 
step  on  which  she  sat.  was  so  low  that  her  little  unshod 
feet  rested  on  the  cold  bricks.  Li  was  a  chilly  evening  hi 
November,  and  a  light  fall  of  snow  had  made  the  narrow 
streets  and  dark  lanes  dirtier  and  more  cheerless  than  ever. 

Many  people  were  passing,  but  no  OMC  noticed  the  little 
girl,  for  no  one  in  the  world  cared  for  her.  She  was  clad 
in  the  poorest  of  garments;  her  hair  was  long,  thick,  and 
uncombed,  and  her  complexion  was  sallow,  and  her  whole 
appearance  was  unhealthy.  She  iunl  lino  dark  eves;  but 
so  large  did  they  seem,  in  contrast  to  her  thin,  puny  face 
that  they  increased  its  peculiarity  without,  increasing  its 
beauty.  Had  she  had  a  mother  (which,  alas  !  she  had  not), 
those  friendly  eyes  would  have  found  something  ri  her  t<r> 
praise.  But  the  poor  little  •  n.ing  was  told,  a  dozen  times 
a-day,  that  she  was  the  woivt -looking  child  in  the  world, 
and  the  worst-behaved.  Mo  one  loved  her,  and  she  loved 
no  one;  no  one  tried  to  make  her  happy,  or  cured  whether 


she  was  so.     She  was  but  eight  years  old,  and  alone  in  the 
world. 

She  loved  to  watch  for  the  coming  of  the  old  man  who 
lit  the  street-lamp  in  front  of  tho  house  where  she  lived  ; 
to  see  his  bright  torch  flicker  in  the  wind;  and  then  when 
he  so  quieklv  ran  up  his  ladder,  lit  the  lamp,  and  made 
the  place  cheerful,  a  gleam  of  joy  was  shed  on  a  little 
desolate  heart,  to  which  gladness  was  a  stranger;  and 
though  he  had  never  seemed  to  see,  and  had  7iever  spoken 
to  her,  she  felt,  as  she  watched  for  the  old  lamplighter,  as 
if  he  were  a  friend. 

"  Cierty,"  exclaimed  a  harsh  voice  within,  "have  you 
been  for  t  he  milk  ': '' 

The  child  made  no  answer,  but  gliding  off  the  doorstep, 
ran  quickly  round  the  corner  of  the  house,  and  hid  a  little 
out  of  sight.  "What's  become  of  that  child  ?"  said  tho 
woman  who  spoke,  and  who  now  showed  herself  at  the 
door. 

A  boy  who  was  passing,  and  had  seen  flerty  run.  anc 
who  looked  upon  her  as  a  spirn  of  evil,  laughed  alouo., 
pointed  to  the  corner  which  concealed  her.  and  walking  of  I. 
with  his  head  over  his  should*  rs,  to  see  what  would  happen 
next,  said  to  himself,  "She'll  catch  it  !" 

(lerty  was  dragged  from  her  hiding-place,  and  with  one 
blow  for  he:  r. u'l:ne>s  and  another  for  her  impudence  (for 
she  was  making  faces  at  Xan  (Irani),  was  despatched  down 
a  neigliboui'inu'  allev  for  the-  milk. 

She  ran  fast .  fearing  th--  lamplighter  would  come  and 
go  in  her  absence,  and  was  ivj<.ir<  d.  on  her  return,  to  catch 
a  sight  of  him  just  going  up  his  ladder.  She  stood  at  the 
fool  of  it ,  and  was  so  <  n^a-jed  in  wal  eliing  t  he  bright  flame, 
that  she  did  not  observe  t  he  des<  cut  of  the  man:  and,  an 
she  \vas  directlv  in  his  \vav.  he  .-truck  against  her.  and  she 
fell  upon  the  pavement.  "Hallo,  mv  little  one!"  ex- 
claimed he.  "how's  this?"  as  he  stooped  to  lift  her  up. 
She  \\as  on  her  feet,  in  an  n:-!ant:  for  she  was  u>ed  to 
hard  knocks,  and  did  i,or  mind  a  few  bruises.  Hut  the 
milk  \\  a  s  all  spilt. 

••  Well  !    now.    I    declare  '  "    said    t  I; 
bad  !      u  i.ii'l  i     mai    !  ,          '    and     i< 

I'aei  .  he  e.V'-iaimed.  "     '    ,  I   a  n  odd- 


"  Sue   won't,    l.iw    )i;ii'd    on  »u.i;j»    a 


THE  LAWLKUITER.  « 

mite  as  you  are,  will  she  ?  Gheer  up,  my  ducky  !  never 
mind  if  she  docs  scold  you  n  little.  I'll  bring  you  some- 
thing to-morrow  that  you'll  like;  you're  such  a  lonely- 
looking  thing.  And  if  die  old  woman  makes  a  row,  tell 
her  I  did  it. — But  didn't  I  hurt  you?  U'hat  were  you 
doing  with  my  ladder?" 

''  1  was  seeing  you  light  the  lamp.''  said  Gerty,  "and  I 
an't  hurt  a  bit;  but  1  wish  I  hadn't  spilt  the  milk." 

Just  then  Xan  Grant  came  to  the  door,  saw  what  had 
happened,  and  pulled  the  child  into,  the  house,  amidst 
blows  and  profane,  brutal  language.  The  lamplighter  tried 
to  appease  her,  but  she  shut  the  door  in  his  face.  Gerty 
was  scolded,  beaten,  deprived  of  her  usual  crust  for  her 
supper,  and  shut  up  in  her  dark  attic  for  the  night.  Poor 
little  child  !  Her  mother  imd  died  in  Xan  Grant's  house 
five  years  before;  and  she  h;id  been  tolerated  there  since, 
not  so  much  because  when  Ben  Grant  went  to  sea  he  bade 
his  wife  to  keep  the  child  until  his  return — he  had  been 
gone  so  long  that  no  one  thought  he  would  ever  come 
back — but  because  Xan  had  reasons  of  her  own  for  doing 
so,  and,  though  she  considered  Gerty  a  dead  weight  upon 
her  hands,  she  did  not  care  to  excite  inquiries  by  trying  to 
dispose  of  her  elsewhere. 

When  Gerty  found  herself  locked  up  for  the  night  in 
the  dark  garret — Gerty  hated  and  feared  the  dark — she 
stood  for  a  minute  perfectly  still,  then  suddenly  began  to 
stamp  and  scream,  tried  to  boat  open  the  door,  and  shouted, 

ld  Xan  Grant,  i  hate  you  !" 
and  she  grew  more  quiet,  lay 


thin  hands,  and  sobbed  as  if  her  heart  would  break.  She 
wept  until  she  was  exhausted;  and  then  gradually  she  be- 
came still.  By-and-by  she  took  her  hands  from  her  face, 
clasped  them  together  convulsively,  and  looked  up  at  a 
little  glazed  window  near  the  bed.  It  was  but  three  panes 
of  glass  unevenly  sin  k  together.  There  wa.s  no  moon; 
but  as  Gerty  looked  up,  she  saw  ^lining  upon  her  one 
bright  star.  She  thought  she  h;'d  never  seen  anything  half 
so  beautiful.  She  had  often  been  out.  of  doors  when  t  lie 
sky  was  full  of  stars,  and  had  not  noticed  them  much;  but 
this  one,  ail  alone,  so  lar^e.  so  bright,  and  yet  so  soft  and 
pleasant-looking,  seemed  to  speak  to  her:  to  say.  '•  (iertv  ' 
Gerty  !  j/uur  little  Gerty  !  She  thought  it  seemed  like 


THE  LA VPT.KUITER. 


a  kind  face,  surh  a?  she  IKK!  :i  Vr,  ir  time  a^o  soon  or 
dreamt  about.  Su(liU'iii\  sin-  asl\rii  her-e!f.  "  \\ho  lit  it? 
Somebody  Hi  it  !  Some  :'ood  person.  1  know.  (Mi  !  how 
could  he  c,et  up  so  !i;  And  (iirtv  full  asleep,  won- 

dering who  lilt  tic  star. 

Poor  little,  uniaud.t,  benighted  soul  !  Who  shall  en- 
lighten thee?'  Thou  a, 'I  (lod's  child .  little  one!  Christ; 
died  for  tlieo.  \\  il!  he  noi  send  man  or  anvvl  to  li^ht  up 
the  darkness  within.  1"  kimbe  a  ii^hl  that  shall  never  go 
our.  the  liirht  that  shall  <hine  ihroiiLdi  all  eternity  ! 

(iertv  awoke  the  next  morning,  not  as  children  \vakp 
v/lio  ai't-  roused  liv  merry  voices,  or  hy  a  {iarent's  kiss,  wlio 
have  kind  hand.-  to  heip  thc!ii  di'e-s,  and  knowing  thai  a 
nice  hi'cakfa-t  awaits  iheni;  li'at  she  heard  harsh  voices 
helow;  Nan's  .sun.  and  two  or  three  hoarders,  had  eoine  in 
to  breakfast,  and  (lerty's  only  chance  of  olitaining  any 
sl;ar(l  of  the  meal  u  as  to  he  on  the  spot  when  they  had 
finished,  to  take  thai  porliou-ol!  what  ••cinained  which  Xan 
niia'ht  shove  towards  her.  So  she  crept  downstairs,  waited 
a  little  till  they  had  all  Ll'o.'.e  out,  and  then  >he  slid  into 
the  room.  She  met  with  a  rouirh  ^'iv-etin^  from  Nan.  who 
told  her  she  had  hettir  iir  p  thai  n^iv.  .-our  look:  eat 
some  break  fa.-;,  if  she  wanted  it,  but  keen  out  of  her  wav, 
ami  not  come  near  tin-  lire,  where  she  wa-  at.  work,  or 
she'd  get  anot  her  <ii'essini,r.  \\or.-c  than  she  had  last  ni^ht. 
(iei'tv  had  not  looked  for  anv  other  treatment,  so  she  was 
not  disappointed;  but,  u'hn;  of  ihe  mise-rahle  food  left  for 
hei-  on  the  ta'nle.  she  swal!  iwed  il  eaireriy,  and  .-lie  took 
her  little  old  hood.  thiv\\  on  a  ra^'ed  shawl,  which  had 
beloii^i'd  to  lie)'  mothei'.  and  ran  oul  of  the  house. 

I'acK  of    Nan  <«ra'ii'>    hoiisu  was  a  larv,c  \vooii   and   coal- 

vard,   and    be'.und    thai    a    wharf,    and    the    thick,    inuddv 

"   of    a    do   k,      (  H    !  v    m  .:  it     have    found    many    plav- 

•  ,-i' '  -  '.  1 1  '         '      i'c.     She   -oiii'M  ime-  did    mingle  with  the 

io_vs  and  '.. :;  !-.  r  •  •  •  j '  •  '  like  lier.-elf,  who  played  in  t  he  vard  ; 

hiii    not  oft"]  •  v  as  a    league   aL'.'ain.-i    her  amoni,r  the 

•hiidl'i  •<'         \          '.   I  ;    :  .  <-d  .  ;:  !,d    ! .,  i -e]'a  i '1  \'  cafcd 

for.  a         •  •    •••.  •   ••  I  <  Jert  v  was  im  ire  ne^leetod 

and    ahii-fd.      'I  h    \  ten    seen    iu-r   beaten,  am;    daily 

heard   her  <  ailed    an  njl    .  \  iekrd    eiiild  ;    told  that    sin.'   bc- 

1'  'ii^'-d  to  noiio  iad  no  'i.Mi.-i  ne.-s  in   any  one's  lioii.-e. 

Thus  t  hey  fell   t  hei  '         .  a  :id  sci  -Mied   :  ii      lit  1  le  out- 

caal.      IV-ri.ap.s  tin  have  been    the  cade  if  Clel'ty 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER,  7 

had  mingled  freely  with  them,  ;m<l  tried  to  be  on  friendly 
terms;  but,  while  her  mother  lived,  she  did  her  best  to 
keep  her  little  girl  away  from  the  rude  herd.  Perhaps 
that  habit  of  avoidance,  but  still  more  a  something-  in  the 
child's  nature,  kept  her  from  joining  in  their  rough  spoils, 
after  her  mother's  death  had  left  her  to  do  as  she  liked. 
She  seldom  had  any  intercourse  with  them.  Nor  did  they 
abuse  her  except  in  words;  for,  singly,  they  dared  not 
cope  with  her — spirited,  sudden,  and  violent,  she  had 
made  herself  feared  as  well  as  disliked.  Once  a  band  of 
them  had  united  to  vex  her;  but.  Nan  Grant  coming  up 
just  when  one  of  the  girls  was  throwing  the  shoes,  which 
she  had  pulled  from  Gerty's  feet,  into  the  dock,  had  given 
the  girl  a  sound  whipping,  and  put  them  all  to  flight. 
Gerty  had  not  had  a  pair  of  shoes  since;  but  Nan  Grant, 
for  once,  had  done  her  a  good  service,  and  the  children 
now  left  her  in  peace. 

It  was  a  sunshiny,  though  a  cold  day,  when  Gerty  sought 
shelter  in  the  wood-yard.  There  was  an  immense  pile  of 
timber  in  one  corner  of  the  yard,  almost  out  of  sight  of 
any  of  the  houses.  Of  different  lengths,  the  planks 
formed,  on  one  side,  a  series  of  irregular  steps.  Near  the 
top  was  a  little  sheltered  recess,  overhung  by  some  long 
planks,  and  forming  a  miniature  shed,  protected  by  the 
wood  on  all  sides  but  one,  and  from  that  looking  out  upon 
the  water. 

This  was  Gerty's  haven  of  rest,  and  the  only  place  from 
which  she  never  was  expelled.  Here,  during  the  long 
summer  days,  the  little  lonesome  child  sat  brooding  over 
her  griefs,  her  wrongs,  and  her  ugliness;  sometimes  weep- 
ing for  hours.  Now  and  then  she  would  get  a.  little  more 
cheerful,  and  enjoy  watching  the  sailors  as  they  laboured 
oji  board  their  vessels,  or  rowed  to  and  fro  in  little  boats. 
The  warm  sunshine  was  so  pleasant,  'ind  the  men's  voices 
go  lively,  that  the  poor  little  thing  sometimes  forgot  her 
woes. 

But  summer  was  gone,  and  the  schooner  and  the  sailors 
were  gone  too.  The  \veather  was  cold,  and  for  a  few  davs 
had  been  so  stormy,  that  Gerty  had  to  stay  in  the  house. 
Now,  however,  she  made  the  best  of  her  way  to  her  little- 
hiding-place;  aifd,  to  her  joy,  the  sunshine  had  dried  up 
the  boards,  so  that  they  felt  warm  to  her  bare  feet,  and 
was  still  shining  so  bright  and  pleasant,  that  Gerty  i'orgot 


8  77/7?  LAMPLWIITEll   ' 

Nan  Grant,  forgot  how  cold  she  had  been,  and  how  much 
she  dreaded  the  long  winter.  Her  thoughts  rambled  about 
sometime:  but,  at  last,  fixed  upon  the  kind  look  and  voice 
of  the  old  lamplighter;  and  then,  for  the  first  time  since 
the  promise  was  made,  it  came  into  her  mind  that  he  had 
engaged  to  bring  her  something  the  next  time  he  came. 
She  could  not  believe  he  would  remember  it;  but  still  he 
might  —  he  seemed  to  be  so  sorrv  for  her  fall. 

What  would  he  bring?  Would  it  be  something  to  eat  ? 
Oh,  if  it  were  only  some  shoes  !  Perhaps  he  did  not 
notice  that  she  had  none? 

Gerty  resolved  to  go  for  her  milk  in  season  to  be  back 
before  it  was  time  to  light  the  lam}),  so  that  nothing 
should  prevent  her  seeing  him.  The  day  seemed  very  long, 
but  darkness  came  at  last;  and  with  it  came  True — or 
rather  Trueman  Flint,  for  that  was  the  lamplighter's  name. 
Gerty  was  on  the  spot,  though  she  took  good  care  to  elude 
Nan  Grant's  observation. 

True  was  late  about  }\\^  work  that  night,  and  in  a  great 
hurry.  He  had  onlv  time  to  speak  a  few  words  to  Gerty; 
but  thev  were  words  coming  straight  from  a  good  and 
honest  liea"t.  He  put  his  great,  smuttv  hand  on  her  head 
in  the  kindest  wav.told  her  how  sorry  he  was  she  got  hurt, 
and  said,  "  It  was  a  plaguy  s'hame  she  should  have  been 
whipped,  too,  and  all  for  a  spill  o'  milk,  that  was  a  mis- 
fort  in',  and  no  crime." 

"  Hut  here,"  added,  he.  diving  into  one  of  his  huge 
pockets,  "here's  the  critter  I  promised  you.  Take  good 
care  on't  ;  don't  'buse  it  ;  and  I'm  thinking,  if  it's  like  the 
mother  I've  got  at  home,  'twon'i  be  a  littk1  ye'il  lie  likin' 
it,  'fore  you're  done.  Good-bve,  mv  little  gal;  "and  he 
shouldered  his  ladder  and  went  oil"',  leaving  in  Gerty's  hands 
a  lit  t  le  grey  -m:i  [-white  kitten. 

Gertv  was  so  taken  by  surprise  on  finding  in  her  arms 
a  li\e  kitten,  something  so  ditl'ereiit  from  what  she  had 
anticipated,  that  she  stood  irresolute  what  to  do  with  it. 
There  were  a  many  eat-,  o1'  a!!  sixes  and  colours,  inhabi- 
tant? of  the  neighbouring  houses  and  yard;  frightened- 
looking  en  atures,  which,  like  (lerty  herself,  ran  about,  and 
hid  themselves  among  the  v.  o<  d  HIM]  coal,  seeming  to  feel, 
as  sin  did,  great  doubts  ab  •  tin  ;r  having  a  right  to  be 
anvwheiv.  (ii-rtv  had  ol'ttn  I'eli  a  sympathy  for  them, 
but  ne\er  thought,  of  trying  ro  catch  one,  and  'iwrry  it 


THE  LAMPLianTER.  8 

home;  for  she  knew  that  food  and  shelter  were  grudgingly 
accorded  to  herself,  uud  would  not  be  extended  to  her  [tola. 
Her  first  thought,  therefore,  was  to  throw  the  kitten  down, 
and  let  it  run  away.  But  while  siie  wus  hesitating,  the 
little  animal  pleaded  for  itself  in  a  way  she  could  not  resist, 
Frightened  by  its  long  journey  in  True  Flint's  pocket,  it 
crepe  from  Gerfy's  arms  up  to  her  neck,  clung  there,  and,., 
with  feeble  cries,  seemed  to  a.-'k  her  to  take  care  of  it.  its 
eloquence  prevailed  over  all  fear  of  Nan  Grant's  anger, 
She  hugged  pussy  to  her  bosom,  and  resolved  to  love  and 
feed  it,  and  keep  it  out  of  Xan's  sight. 

How  much  she  came  in  time  to  love  that  kitten  no  words 
can  tell.  Her  little,  fierce,  untamed,  impetuous  nature 
had  hitherto  expressed  itself  only  in  angry  passion,  sullen 
obstinacy,  and  hatred.  But  there  were  in  her  soul  foun- 
tains of  warm  affection,  a  depth  of  tenderness  never  yefc 
called  out,  and  a  warmth  and  devotion  of  nature  that 
wanted  only  an  object  upon  which  to  expend  themselves. 

So  she  poured  out  such  wealth  of  love  071  the  poor  kitten 
as  only  .such  a  desolate  little  heart  has  to  spare.  She  loved 
the  kitten  all  the  more  for  the  care  she  was  obliged  to  take 
of  it,  and  the  trouble  it  gave  her.  She  kept  it,  as  much 
as  possible,  out  among  the  boards,  in  her  favourite  haunts. 
She  found  an  old  hat,  in  which  she  placed  her  hood,  to 
make  a  bed  for  pussy.  She  carried  it  a  part  of  her  scanty 
meals;  she  braved  for  it  what  she  would  not  have  done  for 
herself — for  almost  every  day  she  abstracted  from  the 
kettle,  when  she  returned  with  the  milk  for  Xan  Grant, 
enough  for  pussy's  supper,  at  the  risk  of  being  discovered 
and  punished,  the  only  risk  of  harm  the  poor  ignorant 
child  knew  or  thought  of,  in  connection  with  the  theft; 
for  her  ideas  of  abstract  right  and  wrong  were  utterly 
undeveloped.  So  she  would  plav  with  her  kitten  for  hours 
among  the  boards,  talk  to  it,  and  tell  it  how  7>iuch  she 
loved  it.  But  in  very  cold  days  she  was  pu/./lod  to  know 
how  to  keep  herself  warm  out  of  doors,  and  the  risk  of 
bringing  the  kitten  into  the  house  was  great.  She  would 
then  hide  it  in  her  bosom,  a7id  run  with  it  into  her  little 
garret.  Once  or  twice,  when  she  had  been  ofT  her  guard, 
her  little  playful  pet  had  escaped  from  her,  and  scampered 
through  the  lower  room  and  passage.  Once  Nan  Irove  it 
out  with  a  I)roo7n  ;  but  there  cats  and  kittens  were  not  so 
uncommon  as  to  excite  inquiry. 


10  TITE  L 

IIo\v  vvas  it  i'luii  Oerty  had  leisure  to  spend  nil  her  time 
af  plav  ?  Most  children  of  the  poorer  class  learn  to  No 
useful  while  I  he\  are  yonnijf.  Nan  (irant  had  '10  babies; 
and  beine.  a  \  cry  act  ivc  \\  omau.  \\  it  li  hut  a  poor  oj  linioii  of 
children's  services,  she  never  tried  to  lind  employment  for 
(Jertv,  much  better  satisfied  for  IKT  to  kccji  out  of  l;er 
5i^lit  ;  so  that,  except  her  dailv  errand  for  the  niiik,  (Jerty 
\v;is  al  \vavs  idle  —  a  fruitful  sr-tnx-c  of  nnhappiness  and 
discontent. 

Nan  was  u  Scotcliwonuni,  not  VOUTILT.  ;ind  with  a  temper 
which,  never  irood,  hecame  \vorse  as  she  ^rew  ohier.  She 
had  seen  life's  roughest  side,  and  had  ahvavs  heen  :i  hard- 
woi'kinir  woman.  Her  hnshand  was  a  carpenter,  Itut  she 
made  lii.s  house  so  uncomfortable,  that  for  years  he  had 
followed  the  sea.  She  took  in  washing,  and  had  a  few 
hoarders:  hy  which  she  earned  \\hat  miirht  !;ave  liccn  an 
amph'  siijiport  for  herself,  had  it  not  heen  for  her  son,  a. 
disorderlv  youtiLf  man.  sjioilt  in  earlv  life  l>v  his  mother's 
management,  and  who,  t  houij'h  a  skilful  workman,  squan- 
dered his  own  and  a  lar^c  part  of  his  mother's,  earnings. 
IS"  an  had  I'eason  for  kecpinv;  (Jerty,  though  they  were  not 
so  strong  as  to  prevent  her  often  heing  inclined  to  gel  rid 
of  the  encumbrance. 


CHAPTER   II. 

COMFORT    AND    AITl.HTIOX. 


e 


finrrv  had  hafl  her  kitten  ahont  a  moiith.when  slie 
took  a  violent  cold  from  exposure  to  damp  and  rain;  and 
Kan.  fearing  she  .-houM  have  I  rouble  with  In-]1  if  .-hi  he- 
earne  seriously  ill,  hade  her  stay  in  the  lioii.-e,  and  kec]>  in 
the  warm  room.  (lertv's  con-ii  was  fearful:  and  she 
would  have  sat  hv  the  lii'c  all  dav,  had  it  not  iieen  for  her 
anxiet  v  ahout  the  k'uten.  Towards  ni^ht  the  men  were 
heard  coming  in  to  supper,  .'u.-t  as  t  hey  entered  the  door 
of  the  room  where  Nan  and  (Jertv  \\ere.  one  of  them 
stumbled  over  the  kitten,  which  had  slh  come  in  with 


TIT 8  LAVPLTinTER.  11 


"Cracky!  what's  this  'ere  ?'"  said   the  man  whom 
called  Jemmy;  "a  cat,  1  vow!     Why,  Nan,  I  thought  you 
hated  eats  ! " 

"  Well,  'tan't  none  o'  minr;  drive  it  out,"  said  Nan. 

Jemmy  tried  lo  do  .-o;  but  pu.-s,  making  a  circuit  round 
his  legs,  sprang  forward  into  the  arms  of  Gerty. 

"  Whose  kitten's  that,  (Jerty  ?  ''  said  Nan. 

"Mine  !  ''  said  Gerty,  bravely. 

"Well,  how  long  have  you  kept  cats ? "  asked  Nfan. 
"Speak!  how  came  you  by  this  ?  " 

Gerty  was  afraid  of  the  men.  She  did  not  like  to  con- 
fess to  whom  she  was  indebted  for  the  kitten;  she  knew  it 
would  only  make  matters  worse,  for  Nan  had  never  for- 
given True  Flint's  rough  expostulation  against  her  cruelty 
in  beating  the  child  for  spilling  the  milk,  and  Gerty  could 
not  think  of  any  other  source  to  which  she  could  ascribe 
the  kitten's  presence,  or  she  would  not  have  hesitated  to 
tell  a  falsehood;  for  her  limited  education  had  not  taught 
her  a  love  or  habit  of  truth  where  a  lie  would  better  serve 
her  turn,  and  save  her  from  punishment.  She  was  silent, 
and  burst  into  tears. 

''Come,"  said  -Jemmy,  "give  us  some  supper,  Nan,  and 
let  the  gal  alone."  Nan  complied,  ominously  muttering, 
however. 

The  supper  just  finished,  an  organ-grinder  began  to 
play  at  the  door.  The  men  stepped  out  to  join  the  crowd, 
who  were  watching  the  motions  of  a  monkey  that  danced 
to  the  music.  Gcrty  ran  to  the  window  to  look  out.  De- 
lighted with  the  gambols  of  the  creature,  she  gazed  until 
the  man  and  monkev  moved  oil'  -so  intently,  that  she  did 
not  miss  the  kitten  which  had  crept  down  from  her  arms, 
and,  springing  upon  the  table,  began  to  devour  the  rem- 
nants of  the  repast.  The  organ-grinder  was  not  out  of 
sight  when  Geriy  saw  (he  old  lamplighter  coming  up  the 
Street.  She  resolved  to  wa'oh  him  light  his  lamp,  when 
she  was  startled  by  a  sharp  and  angry  cxclamat ion  from 
Nan,  and  turned  just  in  time  to  see  her  sna;ch  her  darling 
kitten  from  the  table,  Gertv  sprang  !o  tiie  rescue,  jumped 
into  a  chair,  und  caught  N'ae,  by  the  arm;  but  she  lirmly 
pushed  her  back,  and  threw  the  kitten  half  across  the 
room.  (Jcrfy  heard  a  sudden  spla>h  and  a  piercing  cry. 
Nan  hud  Hung  the  poor  creature  into  a  large  vessel  oJ! 


12  THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 

steaming  hot  water.     The  poor  animal  writhed  an  Instant, 
then  d'cd  in  torture. 

Gerty 's  anger  was  aroused.  Without  hesitation,  she 
lifted  a  stick  of  wood,  and  violently  Hung  it  at  Kan,  and 
it  struck  the  woman  on  the  head.  The  blood  started  from 
the  wound:  hut  Nan  hardly  felt  the  blow,  so  greatly  was 
she  excited  against  the  child.  She  sprang  upon  her  , 
caught  her  by  the  shoulder,  and  opening  the  house-dooi, 
thrust  her  out.  "  Ye ''11  never  darken  my  doors  again,  yer 
imp  of  wickedness!  "  said  she,  leaving  the  child  alone  in 
the  eold  night. 

Wheu  (Jerty  was  angry,  she  always  cried  aloud — utter- 
ing a  succession  of  piercing  shrieks,  until  she  sometimes 
quite  exhausted  her  strength.  When  she  found  herself  in 
the  street  she  commenced  screaming — not  from  fear  of 
being  turned  awav  from  her  onlv  home,  and  left  alone  at 
nightfall  to  wander  about  the  city,  and  perhaps  freeze  be- 
fore morning — she  did  not  think  of  herself  fora  moment. 
Horror  and  grief  at  the  dreadful  fate  of  the  only  thing  she 
loved  in  the  world  entirely  tilled  her  little  soul,  So  she 
crouched  down  against  the  side  of  the  house,  her  face  hid 
in  her  hands,  unconscious  of  the  noise  she  was  making. 
Suddenly  she  found  herself  placed  on  Trueman  Flint's 
ladder,  which  leaned  against  the  lamp-post.  True  held 
her  high  enough  to  bring  her  face  opposite  his,  and  saw 
his  old  acquaintance,  and  kindly  asked  her  what  was  the 
mat  ter. 

liiit  Gerty  could  only  gasp  and  say,  "  Oh,  my  kitten! 
mv  kit  icii !  " 

'"  What!  the  kiri.cn  T  gave  you?  Well,  have  you  lost  it? 
I  >on't  crv  !  there  -  don't  crv  !  " 

"Oli,  iio!  not  lo.^r!  Oh,' poor  Kitty!5'  and  Gerty  c\  ied 
Jonder  and  eon-hed  so  dreadfully,  that  True  was  fright- 
ened !'<>r  the  child.  Making  every  ell'ort  to  soothe  her,  he 
told  her  she  would  catch  her  death  o' cold,  and  she  mn-t 
go  into  tin-  house. 

"(Mi,  she  won't  let  me  in!  said  Gerty  "'and  I  wouldn't 
go  i  f  she  \\  ould. " 

"  Who  won't  let  vou  in  ? — your  mother?" 

'•  N'o!   Nan  Grata  ':  '' 

"  Who's  Nan  Grant  ?" 

'•  She's  a  horrid,  wicked  \\  >ma;i,  that  drowned  my  kitten 
»U  biljn'  water.'-' 


THE  LAMPLlGllYkh  '  I* 

"  But  where's  your  mother?  " 

"I  ha'n't  got  none," 

t(  Who  do  you  belong  to,  you  poor  little  thing?" 

"  Nobody;  and  I've  no  business  anywhere!  " 

"  With  whom  do  you  live,  and  who  takes  care  of  yon?" 

"  Oh,  I  lived  with  Nan  Grant;  but  I  hate  her.  I  threw 
a  stick  of  wood  at  her  head,  and  I  wish  I  had  killed  her!" 

"Hush!  hush!  vou  musn't  say  that!  I'll  go  and  speak 
to  her." 

True  moved  to  the  door,  trying  to  draw  Gerty  in;  but 
she  resisted  so  forcibly  that  he  left  her  outside,  and,  walk- 
ing into  the  room,  Avhere  Nan  was  binding  up  her  head 
with  a  handkerchief,  told  her  she  had  better  call  her  little 
girl  in,  for  she  would  freeze  to  death  out  there. 

•'She's  no  child  of  mine,"  said  Nan;  "she's  the  worst 
little  creature  that  ever  lived;  it's  a  wonder  I've  kept  her 
so  long;  and  now  I  hope  I'll  never  lay  eyes  on  her  agin — 
and,  what's  more,  I  don't  mean.  She  ought  to  be  hung 
for  breaking  my  head!  I  believe  she's  got  an  ill  spirit  in. 
her!" 

"But  what'll  become  of  her?"  said  True.  "It's  a 
fearful  cold  night.  How'd  you  feel,  inarm,  if  she  were 
found  tomorrow  morning  all  friz  up  on  your  doorstep!  " 

"  How'd  I  feel!  That's  your  business,  is  it?  S'posen 
you  take  care  on  her  yourself!  Yer  make  a  mighty  deal 
o'  fuss  about  the  brat.  Carry  her  home,  and  try  how  yer 
like  her.  Yer've  been  here  a  talkin'  to  me  about  her  once 
afore,  and  I  won't  hour  a  v/ord  more.  Let  other  folks  see 
to  her,  I  say;  I've  had  more'n  my  share,  and  as  to  her 
freezin',  or  dyiiv*  anyhow,  I'll  risk  her.  Them  children 
that  comes  into  the  world  nobody  knows  how,  don't  go 
out  of  it  in  a  hurry.  She's  the  city's  property — let  'em 
look  out  for  her;  and  you'd  better  go,  and  not  meddle 
with  what  don't  consarn  you.'' 

True  did  not  wait  to  hear  more.  He  was  7iot  used  to 
an  angry  woman,  who  was  the  most  formidable  thing  to 
him  in  the  world.  Nan's  Hashing  eyes  and  menacing 
attitude  warned  him  of  the  coming  tempest,  and  he 
hastened  a\vav.  Gert.v  had  ceased  crving  when  he  came 
out,  and  looked  into  his  lace  with  the  greatest  interest- 

"  Well,"  said  lie.  ''she  says  you  shan't  come  back." 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  glad!  "  said  (ierty. 

"  But,  vybere'll  you  go  to  h  " 


14  TV/A'  LAMPLIGHTER. 

"I  don't  know]    p'raps  I'll  go    with   you,  tin d  see  von 

light  tin-  hinijis." 

"  But  where'll  you  sleep  to-night  ;'" 

"1  don't  know  where;  J  haven't  got  any  home.  I'll 
sleep  out  where  I  can  see  the  .stars.  P>ut  it'll  be  cold, 
Won't  it  ':" 

"  My  orood  ness!     You'll  freeze  to  death,  child." 

"  Well,  what'll  hecome  of  me,  then  ?" 

"  The  i.ord  onlv  kncw-1 '' 

True  locked  at  (Jevtv  in  perfect  Bonder.  ITe  eonld  r.- 
leave  her  there  on  such  a  cold  nildit;  but  lit  hanilv  kne\\ 
\vhat  he  could  do  \vith  her  at  home,  for  he  lived  alone, 
and  uas  ]ioor.  l>ut  another  violent  coiiL:hin^  deeideij 
him  to  share  with  her  his  shelter,  l.re,  aiul  food,  for  one 
night,  at  least.  '•  Come,"  said  he,  "with  me;''  and  (lerty 
ran  along  hy  his  side,  never  asking  ^  hi; her. 

True  had  a  (hixen  l:iin})>  to  light  hefore  his  round  was 
finished.  (Jerty  watehrd  him  light  each  with  as  keen  an 
interest  as  if  that  were  the  only  ohjeet  for  which  she  was 
in  his  company:  and  it  was  only  after  they  had  walked  on 
for  some  distance  without  stopping,  that  the  inquired 
where  they  were  going. 

"  Going  home,"  said  Trur. 

"Am  1  u'oim:  to  vour  hi'me?"  said  Gerty. 

"  Yes,"  said  Trias  "and  h.  n-  it  is." 

lie  opened  a  little  gate  leading  into  a  small  yard,  which 
stretched  along  the  who'r  ieu-'th  of  a  tw.i-storied  hou.-f. 
True  lived  in  the  hack'  part  of  it;  and  lioth  went  in. 
(lerty  was  tremliling  with  the  cold:  her  little  hare  feet 
were,  o^iite  Mne  with  v.aikinj1  on  the  pavi  mrnts.  Tliere 
was  a  st<ive  iii  tin-  room,  hi  i  no  (ire  in  it.  True  immetli- 
atelv  di- ti<i-'''il  of  hi-  ladd  T,  toi'cii,  etc  .  in  an  ad  ji>inin'.T 
shed,  and  !  rir  Lrin  i_'  in  a  hand  Hi!  of  wood,  he  lit  a  lire. 
I)rau'ing  an  old  uooden  sH  i ','  up  to  the  tire,  he  t  hrew  his 
great-enat  ovi-r  it,  and  '  ,  •  •  (  .  ."  \  up,  he  placed 

her  gently  upon   the   -'.::.      llctlicn    prcp-ircd   siijipr-r:   fi-r 
True  \\a-  an  i.ld  !>a    !,  -\>  r.  >i    liim.-i-lf. 

1\f    niadi'    lea:    then,    n  '/rent     mnvfi:!     for    (-ertv. 

[ill-lit  v  n|     n       ;    :,  •  .  •        \.  he    hi'ni!  \:  h»   a   lc;if  cf 

.   ,. '  d    j  'rested    her   to   eat    and 


TUB  LAMPLIGHTER  15 

had  ever  had,  that  he  forgot  to  partake  of  it  himself,  but 
sat  watching  her  with  a  tenderness  which  proved  that  he 
was  a  friend  to  everybody,  even  to  the  most  forlorn  little 
girl  in  the  world. 

Truemun  Flint  was  born  in  Xew  Hampshire;  but,  when 
fifteen  years  old,  being  left  an  orphan,  he  had  made  his 
way  to  Boston,  where  he  supported  himself  by  whatever 
employment  he  could  obtain;  having  been  a  newspaper- 
carrier,  a  cab-driver,  a  porter,  a  wood-cutter,  indeed,  a 
jack-at-all-trades;  and  so  honest,  capable,  and  good- 
tempered  had  he  always  shown  himself,  that  he  every- 
where won  a  good  name,  and  had  sometimes  continued  for 
years  in  the  same  employ.  Previous  to  his  entering  upon 
the  service  in  which  we  find  him,  he  had  been  a  porter  in 
a  large  store,  owned  by  a  wealthy  and  generous  merchant. 
Being  one  day  engaged  in  removing  some  casks,  he  was 
severely  injured  by  one  of  them  falling  upon  his  chest. 
For  a  long  time  no  hope  was  entertained  of  his  recovery; 
and  when  he  began  to  mend,  his  health  returned  so  gradu- 
ally that  it  was  a  year  before  he  was  able  to  be  at  work 
again.  This  sickness  swallowed  up  the  savings  of  years 
but  his  late  employer  never  allowed  him  to  want  for  any 
comforts,  provided  an  excellent  physician,  and  saw  that 
he  was  well  taken  care  of. 

But  True  had  never  been  the  same  man  since,  fie  rose 
from  his  sick-bed  debilitated,  and  apparently  ten  years 
older,  and  his  strength  so  much  enfeebled,  that  he  was 
only  fit  for  some  comparatively  light  employment.  It  was 
then  that  his  kind  master  obtained  for  him  the  situation 
of  lamplighter;  and  he  frequently  earned  considerable 
sums  by  sawing  wood,  shovelling  snow,  and  other  jobs. 
He  was  now  between  fifty  and  sixty  years  old,  a  stoutly- 
built  man,  with  features  cut  in  one  of  nature's  rough 
moulds,  but  expressive  of  much  good  nature.  He  was 
naturally  reserved,  lived  much  by  himself,  was  little 
luiown,  and  had  only  one  crony,  the  sexton  of  a  neigh' 
bouring  church. 

But  we  left  Gertie  finishing  her  supper,  and  now  she  i& 
stretched  upon  the  wide  settle,  -sound  asleep,  covered  \\\ 
with  a  warm  blanket,  and  her  head  resting  upon  a  pillo\v 
True  sits  beside  her;  her  little,  thin  hand  lies  in  his  great 
luiltii — occasionally  lie  dra\v-  the  blanket  closer  urouiul 
Ler.  She  breathes  h.-i'-i)  -:>.)Ji-..uly  she  gives  a  ueivo-.1- 


If)  THE   LAMrL 

start,  then  speaks  quickly;  her  dreams  are  evidently 
troubled.  True  listens  intently  to  her  words,  as  she  ex- 
chums  eagerly.  *'  Oil,  don't  !  don't  drown  my  kitty  \"  and 
then,  attain,  in  a  voice  of  fear,  ''Oh,  she'll  eateli  me! 
she'll  catch  me  !  "  onee  more;  and  now  her  tones  are  touch- 
ingly  plaintive  and  earnest — "  Dear,  dear,  good  old  man  1 
let  me  stay  with  you;  do  let  me  stay  !" 

Tears  are  in  Trueman  Flint's  eyes;  he  lays  his  great 
head  on  the  pillow  and  draws  Gcrty's  little  face  close  to 
his;  at  the  same  time  smoothing  her  long,  uncombed  hair 
with  his  hand,  lie,  too,  is  thinking  aloud — what  does  he 
say?  "  Catch  you  ! — no,  she  shan't  I  Stay  with  me! — so 
you  shall,  I  promise  you,  poor  little  birdie  I  All  alone  in 
this  big  world — and  so  am  1.  Please  God,  we'll  bide  to- 
gether. 


CHAPTER  in 

THE  LAW  OF  KIXDNE88. 

LITTLE  Gcrty  had  found  a  friend  and  a  proteetor;  nnd 

it  was  well  she  had,  for  neglect  and  suffering  had  well- 
nigh  ent  short  her  sad  existence.  The  morning  after  True 
took  her  home,  she  woke  in  a  high  fever.  She  looked 
around,  and  found  she  was  alone  in  the  room;  but  there 
was  a  good  fire,  and  preparation  for  breakfast.  For  a 
moment-  or  two  she  was  puzzled  to  know  where  she  was, 
and  what  had  happened  to  her;  for  the  room  seemed  quite 
strange,  it  now  being  daylight.  A  smile  passed  over  her 
face  when  she  recalled  the  evenis  of  the  previous  night, 
and  thought  of  kind  old  True,  and  the  new  home  she  had 
found  with  him.  She  went  to  the  window  to  look  out, 
though  her  head  was  giddy,  and  she  could  hardly  walk. 
The  ground  was  covered  with  snow,  and  which  dazzled 
Cierty's  eyes,  for  she  suddenly  found  herself  quite  blinded 
—  her  head  grew  diz/v,  she  staggered  and  fell. 

Trm-man  came  in  a  7nomi-nt  after,  and  was  frightened 
at  seeing  (lertv  stretched  upon  the  lloor,  and  was  not  sur- 
nn.-ed  that  she  had  fainted  in  trying  to  walk.  He  placed 
I  ei  in  lied,  and  soon  ,-ueeeedrd  in  restoring  her  to  eon- 
*  noiKsm.'.ss,  but  f«>r  three  \ve.-L-. -•  n)u;  nevfr  ^yt  up,  except 


LAMPLIGHTER  It 

when  True  held  her  in  his  arms.  True  was  a  rough  and 
clumsy  man  about  most  things;  but  not  so  in  the  care  of 
his  little  charge.  lie  was  something  of  a  doctor  and  nurse 
in  his  simple  way:  and,  though  he  had  never  had  much  tc 
do  with  children,  his  warm  heart  taught  him  all  that  waa 
necessary  for  Gerty's  comfort. 

Gerty  was  patient,  but  would  lie  awako  whole  nights 
?ufTering  from  pain  and  weariness  through  long  confine- 
ment to  a  sickbed,  without  uttering  a  groan,  lest  she  might 
waken  True,  who  slept  on  the  iloor  beside  her,  when  he 
could  so  far  forget  his  anxiety  about  her  as  to  sleep  at  all. 
Sometimes,  when  in  great  pain,  'I'nie  carried  her  it,  his 
•inns  for  hours;  but  Gerty  would,  try  to  appear  relieved 
(>e  fore  she  was  so,  and  feign  sieep  that  he  might  put  her 
to  bed  again  and  take  some  rest  himself.  Her  little  heart 
was  full  of  love  and  gratitude  to  her  kind  protector,  and 
<he  spent  much  time  in  thinking  what  she  could  do  for 
nim  when  she  got  well.  True  was  often  obliged  to  leave 
her  to  attend  to  his  work;  and  during  the  first  week  she 
was  much  alone,  though  everything  she  could  possibly  want 
was  put  within  her  reach.  At  last  she  became  delirious, 
and  for  some  days  had  i:o  knowledge  how  she  was  taken 
care  of.  One  day,  after  a  long  sleep,  she  woke  restored  to 
consciousness,  and  saw  a  woman  sitting  by  her  bedside 
sewing.  She  sprang  up  in  bed  to  look  at  the  stranger,  who 
had  not  observed  her  open  her  eyes,  but  who  started  when 
she  heard  her  move,  and  exclaimed,  '•  Oh,  lie  down,  my 
child  1  lie  down  !"  laying  her  hand  gently  upon  her. 

"I  don't  know  you,''  said  Gerty;  "where's  my  Uncle 
True  ?"  for  that  was  the  name  by  which  True  had  told  hei 
to  call  him. 

"  He's  gone  out,  dear;  he'll  be  home  soon.  How  do  you 
feel— better  't " 

"Oh,  yes  !  much  better.     Have  I  been  asleep  long?" 

"Some  time;  lie  down  now,  and  I'll  bring  you  some 
gruel — it  will  be  good  for  yon." 

"  Does  Uncle  True  know  you  are  here  ?  " 

"  Yes.     I  came  in  to  sit  with  you  while  lie  was  away." 

ft  Come  in  ?  — From  when;  ?  " 

"  From  my  room.      L  live  in  the  other  part  of  the  house." 

"  I  think  you're  very  good,"  said  Gertv.  "  1  like  you.  J 
yonder  why  i  did  not  see  you  when  you  came  in." 


18  THE   LAMPLIGIITEH 

"  You  wore  too  Rick,  dear,  to  notice;  hut  I  think  youTl 
soon  he  bet  ler  now." 

The  woman  prepared  the  gruel,  and,  after  Gerty  had 
taken  it,  reseated  herself  at  her  work,  (ierty  laid  down  in 
bed,  with  her  face  towards  her  new  friend,  and,  fixing  her 
large  eves  upon  her,  watched  her  while  she  sat  sewing. 
At  last  the  woman  looked  up,  and  said,  "  Well,  what  do 
you  think  1  am  making?" 

"I  don't,  know,"  said  Gerly;  "  what  are  you  ?" 

The  woman  held  up  her  work,  so  that  Gerty  could  sec 
that  it  was  a  dark  calico  frock  for  a  child. 

"  Oh  !  what  :i  nice  -own  !  "  said  Gerty,  "  Who  it  is  for  > 
-your  little  girl?" 

"  Xo."  said  the  woman,  "  I  haven't  got  any  little  girl, 
I've  onlv  got  one  child,  my  boy  Willie." 

"Willie;  that's,  a  pretty  name,"  said  Gerty.  "Is  ho  & 
good  boy  ?  " 

"  Good  ?  Ife's  flu-  best  hoy  in  the  world,  and  the  hand- 
somest !"  answered  the  woman. 

Gertv  turned  away,  and  a  look  so  sad  came  over  hoi 
countenance,  that  the  woman  thought  she  was  getting 
tired,  and  ought,  to  !><:>  kept  verv  quiet.  She  toid  her  so, 
and  hade  her  to  go  to  neep  again.  Gerty  lay  still,  and 
then  True,  came  in. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Sullivan."  said  he,  "you're  here  still!  I'm 
very  much  obleogod  to  you  for  stayin';  1  hadn't  calkerlated 
to  be  ^(,110  so  long.  And  how  does  the  child  seem  to  be, 
inarm  ?  " 

"  Much  bettor,  Mr.  Flint,  She's  come  to  lier  reason,  and 
I  think,  with  care,  v\  ill  do  well  now.  Oh,  she's  a\\ake," 
ho  added,  secinir  (ierty  open  her  eyes. 

r|'nie  came  to  the  hcdside,  stroked  hack  lier  hair,  no\v 
out  short,  and  felt  her  pui-e,  and  nodded  his  head  satis- 
factorily, (ierlv  eailuht  his  greai  hand  Utweeii  bo!1  of 
hers,  and  held  i'  light.  lie  sat  down  on  the  side  of  the 
bed,  ;u:d  said.  "  I  shouldn't  IK-  surprised  if  she  needed  hej 
new  eioihi  •  sooner  :han  \\  e  though!  of,  inarm.  It's  m\ 
opinion  w>-'ii  lia\  e  !.  ;•  up  and  a  I  out  a  fore  man  v  da  vs." 

"So  I  was  t  hiu  K  •  .:,"  -ail  M  rs.  Sullivan  ;  "but  don't  I,,. 

ill  too  :v;,'  a  t  ni'l'V.  She's  jiad  a  \el'V  Se\ere  •-  ii  k  r.e-s. 
und  her  I'eenven  liiiisl  he  "J'adlia!.  l);d  Viili  see  Mi.-.- 
(il'ahani  to  da\  ':  " 

"  Ye-,  i   did   sea  her,  iioor  t hing  !     The   f.ord   bios;;  he? 


TUB  LAMPLIGHTER.  19 

sweet  face  !  She  axed  a  sight  o"  ouestions  about  little 
Gerty  here,  and  gave  me  this  parcel  of  <trrcr-root,  I  think 
she  called  it.  She  savs  it's  excellent  in  sickness.  Did  you 
ever  fix  any,  Mrs.  Sullivan,  so  that  you  can  jist  show  me 
how,  if  you'll  lie  so  good  :  for  [  declare  \  doii't  remember, 
though  she  took  a  deal  o'  pain-  to  tell  me." 

"  Oil,  yes;  it's  very  easy,     i'll  come  in  and  prepare  some 
by-and-by.     I  don't   think   Gerty  '11  want  any  at  present; 
she's  just  had  some  gruel.     Hut  father  has  come  home,  and  j 
1   must  be  seeing  about  our  tea.     I'll  come  in  again  this 
evening,  Mr.   Flint.'" 

"  Thank  yon.  inarm,  thank  you:  vou're  very  kind." 

During  the  few  following  days  Mrs.  Sullivan  came  in  and 
sat  with  Gerty  several  rimes.  She  was  a  gentle  woman, 
with  a  placid  face,  very  refresh  ing  to  a  child  that  had  long 
lived  in  fear,  and  sulTered  a  irreat,  deal  of  abuse.  One 
evening,  when  Gerty  had  nearlv  recovered,  she  was  sitting 
in  True's  lap  bv  the  fire,  carefully  wrapped  in  a  blanket. 
She  had  been  talking  to  him  about  her  now  acquaintance 
and  friend,  when  suddenh  she  said.  ''  l/ncle  'True,,  do  you 
know  what  little  girl  she's  making  a  c'f>\vn  for  't  '' 

"  For  a  little  girl."'  said  True.  "  tliat  needs  a  frock  and 
a  many  oilier  things:  for  she  hasn't,  got  any  clothes,  except 
a  few  old  rags.  Do  you  know  any  such  little,  girl,  Gerty  ?  '' 

''  I  cruess  I  do/'"  said  ''I'ertv.  with  a  very  knowing  look. 

"  Well,  where  is  she?" 

"  An't  she  in  your  lap:"''' 

"  What,  yon  !  —  Why,  do  you  think  Mrs.  Sullivan  would 
spend  her  time  making  clothes  for  you.  ';  " 

"Well,"  said  Gerty  hanging  her  head,  "I  shouldn't 
think  she  would,  but  then  you  saiii " 

"  Well,  what  did  I  say?"' 

"Something  about  new  clothes  for  me," 

"So  I  did,'''  said  True;  "  they  <7re  for  you  —  two  Avhole 
suits,  with  shoes  and  stockings/" 

Gerty  opened  her  large  eyes  in  amazement,  and  clapped 
her  hands,  and  True  laughed  loo. 

"  Did  she  buy  them,  Uncle  'True?  Is  she  rich  ?"  asked 
Gerty. 

"Mrs.  Sullivan  ?'— no.  indeed!'''  said  True.  ''Miss 
Graham  bought,  "em.  and  is  gi:iiig  to  pay  .Mrs.  Sullivan  for 
making  them/' 

"Who  is  Miss  Graham  v' 


§0  7777?  LAMPLICIfTER 

"  She's  a  ladv  too  uo.'d  for  this  world — that's  sartin. 
I'll  trll  you  about  her  ><  me  lime;  but  better  not  now,  for 
i'/s  lime  you  were,  abed  ;i!;d  asleep." 

One  S;il)li;it  h,  af:er  (ierty  was  7ie;irly  well,  she  was  so 
much  fatigued  that,  she  \\ent  to  hed  hefore  dark,  and  for 
three  hours  slept,  soundiy.  On  awaking,  slie  saw  that.  True 
had  company.  An  <>!•!  man.  much  older  than  True,  was 
sitting  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  stove,  smoking  a  pipe. 
Jl  is  dress,  t  hoiiu'h  ancient  and  homelv,  was  neat:  and  his 
hair  was  wliito.  Jle  had  sharp  features,  and  Gortv  thought 
from  hi.-1  looks  he  could  say  sharp  tilings.  She  right!  v 
conjectured  that  lie  was  .Mrs.  Sullivan's  father,  Mr.  Cooper; 
and  she  did  not  v\idelv  diiT.T  from  most  other  people  who 
knew  the  old  church-sexton.  i>ut  lic.th  his  own  face  and 
public  opinion  somewhat  wivnged  him.  His  nature  was 
Hot  u  Denial  one.  Ooiiicstic,  irials,  and  the  fickleness  of 
fortune,  had  caused  him  to  ICOK  on  the  dark  side  of  life  — 
to  dwell  upon  its  sorrows,  find  frown  upon  the  bright  hopes 
of  the  young  and  the  gay.  11  is  occupation  did  not  coun- 
teract ji disposition  to  niehuicuolv;  hisduties  in  the  church 
were  soiilarv.  and  in  his  old  :i.<jc  iie  had  little  iiitoi'coiirsf 
with  the  world,  had  liecome  sevt-re  toward  its  follies,  and 
unforgiving  toward  its  crimes.  There  was  much  that  was 
good  and  benevolent  in  him,  hr.wever:  and  True  Flint. 
knew  it.  True  liked  the  old  imiti'.-  smeenty ;  aii'i  many  a 
Sabbath  evening  had  they  sat  b^  iM:;t  same  fireside,  and 
discussed  questions  of  puMie  policy,  national  institution*, 
and  individual  rights.  True-man  Flint  was  t  he  reverse  of 
Paul  ('on  per  in  d  is  posit  ion  and  t  em  per.  being  very  sanguine, 
alwavs  disposed  to  look  upon  the  bi-iylii.  si<!e  of  things, 
and  ever  a\erring  that  it  was  his  opinion  'twould  all  come 
out  ri-'lit  at  last.  On  this  e\  ening  they  J'.'Ul  been  talking 
o;i  severaJ  of  such  topics;  kit  when  (Jerty  y.woiie  slie  found 
herself  t  he  sii  bjeet  of  M>II\  ersal  i<  >n. 

"  Where,"  asked  Mr.  Cooper,  "  did  you  t^,v  you  jiicked 
hei  11  j)  ?  '' 

"At  Xan  0 rant's,''  aid  True.  "  Hon't  you  remember 
her?  ,-hc's  the  same  v,  :  use  -on  you  \\vro  called  ini 

1.  •   wit  i  ess   a '/ail  i   ' .  at    t  i  •     lime   I.  he   elm  reh-wnnlow.s  u  ei  „» 
t  i<.k'-'i.        VMM     c;in'i  i     ten     her    at     t  he     iri-.il 

Coot/ej-;    for  she    blc\\    '.  •    ,  :  a   \  e^  "<-a  n(  e.  H'ui  «Jj«lu  ' 

i  .  i 

t^pare  his   honour  the   j  •    liiei.      U'ell, 'twas  jiiaf- ^J"b 

H  ra^e  tl.ie  was  iu  with  this  '«;ro  child  tJie  first  tiiu«  i  -**•» 


THE  LA^ff  JiUfTER.  91 

her;  and   the  second  time  the'd   just  turned  her  out  o* 
doors." 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  remember  the  she-bear.  1  shouldn't  suppose 
she'd  be  any  too  gentle  to  her  own  child,  much  less  a 
stranger's;  but  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  the  found- 
ling, Flint  ?" 

"  Do  with  her? — Keep  her,  to  be  sure.,  and  take  care  on 
her." 

Cooper  laughed  rather  sarcastically, 

"  Well,  now,  I  s'pose,  neighbour,  you  think  it's  rather 
freakish  in  me  to  be  adoptin'  a  child  at  my  time  o'  life; 
and  pr'haps  it  is;  but  I'll  explain.  She'd  a  died  that  night 
I  tell  yer  on,  if  I  hadn't  brought  her  home  with  me;  and 
many  times  since,  what's  more,  if  I,  with  the  help  o'  your 
darter,  hadn't  took  good  care  on  her.  Well,  she  took  on 
so  in  her  sleep,  the  lirst  night  ever  she  came,  and  cried  out 
to  me  all  as  if  she  never  had  a  friend  afore  (and  probably 
she  never  had),  that  I  resolved  then  she  should  stay,  at 
any  rate,  and  I'd  take  care  on  her,  and  share  my  last  crust 
with  the  wee  thing,  come  what  might.  The  Lord's  been 
very  marciful  to  me,  Mr.  Cooper,  very  marcil'ul!  lie's 
raised  me  up  friends  in  my  deep  distress.  I  knew,  when 
I  was  a  little  shaver,  what  a  lonesome  thing  it  was  to  be 
fatherless  and  motherless;  and  when  I  see  this  little 
sufferin'  human  bein'  I  felt  as  if,  all  friendless  as  she 
seemed,  she  was  more  specially  the  Lord's,  and  as  if  1  could 
not  sarve  Him  more,  and  ought  not  to  sarve  Him  less,  than 
to  share  with  her  the  blessings  lie  had  bestowed  on  me, 
You  look  round,  neighbour,  as  if  you  thought  'twan't 
much  to  share  with  any  one;  and  'tan't  much  there  is  here, 
to  be  sure;  but  it's  a  lt(nn<\ — yes,  a  /tome  ;  and  that's  a 
great  thing  to  her  that  never  had  one,  I've  got  my  hands 
yet,  and  a  stout  heart,  and  a  williir  niind.  \Vith  God's 
help,  I'll  be  a  father  to  the  child;  and  the  time  may  come 
when  she'll  be  God's  embodied  blessin'  to  me." 

Mr.  Cooper  shook  his  head  doubtfully,  and  muttered 
something  about  children,  even  one's  own,  not  being  apt 
to  prove  blessings. 

Trueman  added,  "Oh,  neighbour  ('coper,  if  I  had  not 
made  up  my  mind  the  nigh!  (lerty  came  here,  I  wouldn't 
have  sent  her  tiwav  after  i  he  next  dav;  for  the  Lord,  1 
think,  spoke  to  me  by  tiie  mouth  of  one  of  his  holy  angels, 
and  bade  me  persevere  ui  my  reholu'.iun.  You've  seen 


22  TI1K  LAM 

Miss  Graham.  She  poes  to  your  church  reirular,  with  the 
fine  old  gentleman  her  father.  1  was  a!  their  house  shov- 
elling snow,  after  the  pTcat  st'Ttn  three  weeks  since,  and 
the  sent  for  me  to  come  into  the  kitehen.  Weil  mav  1 
bless  her  anpel  face,  poor  thinp!  — -if  the  world  is  dark  t-> 
her  she  makes  it  lip'hi  to  other  folks.  She  cannot  .-ee 
heaven's  sunshine  oni-ide.  but.  she's  better  oil'  than  most 
people,  for  she's  p'ot  it  in  her.  1  do  believe.  a.nd  when  -he 
smiles  it  lets  the  plorv  out ,  and  looks  like  (.oil's  rainbow 
in  the  clouds.  She's  done  me  many  a  kindness  sjnee  1  not 
hurt  so  bad  in  her  father's  store,  now  live  years  _'one;  and 
she  sent  for  me  that  day.  to  ask  how  1  did.  and  if  ther 
was  anything  I  wanted  that  she  could  speak  to  the  master 
a! tout.  So  1  told  her  all  abotil  little  (jerty;  and,  1  tell  you, 
she  and  1  both  cried  Yore  I'd  d:>ne.  Stic  put  some  money 
into  my  hand,  and  told  me  to  pet  Mrs.  Sullivan  to  make 
some  clothes  for  (lerlv:  more  Mian  that,  she  promised  to 
help  me  \i  1  pot.  into  trouble  wish  the  care  of  her;  and 
when  1  was  piinir  a\vav.  she  -,dd,  '  I'm  sure  vou'\c  done 
quite  riv/lit.  True:  the  Lord  will  bles.s  and  reward  your 
kindness  to  that  poor  child.'  ' 

True  was  so  excited  'hat  I:1  did  not  notice  what  the 
Sexton  had  observed,  (icrty  bad  risen  from  her  bed  and 
was  standing  beside  Tn  '.  he;1  eyes  tixed  upon  his.  face, 
breathless  with  the  interest  she  fell  in  Ids  words.  She 
touched  his  shoulder;  he  looked  round,  saw  her,  and 
stretched  out  his  arms.  She  -pranp  into  them,  buried  her 
face  in  his  bosom,  and.  binvting  into  tear.-,  evlaimed, 
"Shall  I  stav  with  \nu  always!'" 

'•  Ye.-1,  just  as  Ion.:  as  1  live,"  said  True,  "  vou  shall  be 

n\y  child." 


CHAPTER    IV. 

FIRST    STKl'S.    To    fiH'KO VKMTiNT. 

IT  was   a   stormv    (Aeninp-.     (icrty  wan   statidini:  at    'lie 
window,    wa'fliirj    fur    'I.1.'-     :•••  n,    his    lamp- 

liu'liLinLT.      She    was    tie  i,    ln-r    hair   ^niuuiii,    her 

face   and    hands    ch  an.      >;•     \\a-    now    (juiie    \\ell      het'ei 
than  lor  years  before  her  cjiekness;  a  paie,  sleiider-lookit..; 


THE  LAVPTJCUTTER.  23 

child,  with  eyes  and  mouth  disproportionately  large  to  her 
other  features;  her  look  of  suffering  had  given  place  to  a 
happy  though  rather  grave  expression.  On  the  wide  win- 
dow-sill in  front  of  her  sat  a  plump  and  venerable  cat, 
parent  to  Gerty's  lost  darling,  and  for  that  reason  very  dear 
to  her;  she  was  quietly  stroking  its  back,  while  the  constant 
purring  that  the  old  veteran  kept  up  proved  her  satisfac- 
tion at  the  arrangement. 

Suddenly  a  rumbling,  tumbling  sound  was  heard  in  the 
wall.  The  house  was  old,  and  furnished  with  ample  ac- 
commodation for  rats.  One  would  have  thought  a  chim- 
ney was  falling  brick  by  brick.  But  it  did  not  alarm 
Gerty;  she  was  used  to  rat-inhabited  walls,  and  accustomed 
to  hearing  such  sounds  all  her  life,  when  she  slept  in  the 
garret  at  Xan  Grant's.  Not  so,  however,  with  the  ancient 
grimalkin,  who  pricked  up  her  ears,  and  gave  every  sign 
of  a  disposition  to  rush  into  battle. 

Gerty  glanced  round  the  room  with  an  air  of  satisfac- 
tion; then,  clambering  upon  the  window-sill,  where  she 
could  see  the  lamplighter  as  he  entered  the  gate,  she  took 
the  cat  in  her  arms, smoothed  her  dress,  and  gave  a  look  of 
pride  at  her  shoes  and  stockings,  and  strove  to  become 
patient.  But  it  would  not  do;  she  could  not  be  patient; 
it  seemed  to  her  that  he  never  came  so  late  before,  and  she 
was  beginning  to  think  he  never  would  come  at  all,  when 
he  turned  into  the  gate,  lie  had  brought  some  person 
with  him.  lie  did  not  look  tall  enough  to  be  Mr.  Cooper, 
but  she  concluded  it  must  be  he,  for  whoever  it  was 
stopped  at  his  door  further  up  the  yard  and  went  it.  Im- 
patient as  Gerty  had  been  for  True's  arrival,  she  did  not 
run  to  meet  him  as  usual,  but  waited  until  she  heard  him 
come  in  through  the  shed,  where  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
stopping  to  hang  up  his  ladder  and  lantern.  She  then 
ran  and  hid  behind  the  door  by  which  he  must  enter  the 
room.  She  evidently  had  some  great  surprise  in  store  for 
him.  The  cat  was  more  mindful  of  her  manners,  and 
went  to  meet  him,  rubbing  her  head  against  his  legs,  which 
was  her  customary  welcome. 

"  Hollo,  whiskers,'7  said  True,  "where's  mv  little  gal?" 

lie  shut  the  door  behind  him  as  he  spoke,  thus  disclos- 
ing Gerty  to  view.  She  sprang  forward  with  a  bound, 
laughed,  and  looked  iirst  at  her  own  clothes  and  then  in 
Drue's  face,  to  see  what  he  would  think  of  her  appearance 


24  THK  LAMPLIGHTER. 

"Well,  I  declare!"  said  he,  lifting  her  up  in  his  arms, 
and  carrying  her  nearer  to  tin-  light;  "  little  folks  do  look 
famous!  Ne\v  frock,  apron,  shoes!  got  'em  all  on!  And 
who  fixed  your  hair?  My!  you  aift  none  too  handsome, 
sartain,  but  you  do  look  famous  nice!  " 

'"  .Mrs.  Sullivan  dressed  me  all  up,  and  brushed  my  hair 
and  more  /no— don't,  you  see  what  elxe  she  has  done?" 

True  followed  Gerty's  eyes  as  they  wandered  around  thv. 
room,  lie  looked  ama/ed  to  satisfy  her  anticipations, 
great  as  they  had  been.  He  had  been  gone  since  morning, 
and  things  had  indeed  undergone  a  transformation. 
Woman's  hands  had  evidently  been  at  work  clearing  up 
and  setting  to  rights. 

Until  Gerty  came  to  live  with  True  his  home  had  never 
been  subjected  to  female  intrusion.  Living  alone,  and 
entertaining  scarcely  any  visitors,  he  tried  to  make  himself 
comfortable  in  his  own  way,  regardless  of  appearances. 
In  his  humble  apartment  sweeping  day  came  but  seldom, 
und  spring-cleaning  was  unknown.  The  corners  of  the 
ceiling  were  festooned  with  cob-webs;  the  mantle-piece 
had  accumulated  a  curious  medley  of  things,  while  there 
was  no  end  to  the  rubbish  that  had  collected  under  the 
grate.  During  Gerty's  illness,  a  bed  made  up  on  the  lloor 
for  True,  and  the  various  articles  required  in  her  sick- 
room, had  increased  the  clutter  to  such  an  extent  that  one 
almost  needed  a  pilot  to  conduct  him  in  safety  through 
the  apartment. 

Mrs.  Sullivan  was  the  soul  of  neatness  in  her  rooms,  in 
her  own  dress  for  simplicit  v,  and  freedom  from  the  least 
speck  or  stain.  It  was  to  nurse  Certv,  and  take  care  ot 
her  in  True's  absence,  that  she  first  entered  a  room  the 
reverse  of  her  own;  the  contrast  was  painful  to  her,  and 
it  would  have  been  a  real  pleasure  to  clear  up  and  put  it 
to  rights;  and  she  resolved  as  soon  as  Gertvgot  well,  to 
exert  herself  in  the  cause  of  cleanliness  and  order,  which 
was,  in  her  eves,  the  cause  of  virtue  and  happiness,  so  com- 
pletely did  «he  identify  outward  neatness  and  purity  with 
inward  peace. 

Cn  the  day  previous  to  that  on  which  the  great  cleaning 
operations  took  place,  Gcrty  was  oliv.-rved  bv  Mrs.  Sullivan 
standing  in  the  passage  near  her  door,  and  looking  wist- 
fully in.  "Come  in,  Gcrty,"  said  the  kind  little  woman ; 
<%  come  in  and  see  ri?,— Here,"  added  she,  seeing  how 


TIIR  LAMPLIGHTER.  25 

timid  the  child  felt  in  intruding  into  a  strange  room; 
"  yon  may  sit  up  here  by  the  table  and  see  me  iron.  This 
i.s  your  little  dress.  I  am  smoothing  it  out,  and  then  your 
tilings  will  all  be  done  !  You'll  be  glad  of  some  new 
clothes,  shan't  you  1' " 

"  Very  glad,  marm,"  said  Gerty.  "Am  I  to  take  them 
away,  and  keep  them  all  myself  ?" 

"  Yes,  indeed, "  said  Mrs.  Sullivan. 

"  I  don't  know  where  I'll  put  'em  all;  there  an't  no  place 
in  our  room — at  least,  no  very  nice  place,"  said  Gerty, 
glancing  at  the  open  drawer,  in  which  Mrs.  Sullivan  was 
placing  the  little  dress,  adding  it  to  a  pile  of  neatly-folded 
garments 

"  Why,  part  of  them,  you  know,  you'll  be  wearing,"  said 
Mrs.  Sullivan;  "  and  we  must  find  some  good  place  for  the 
rest." 

"  You've  got  good  places  for  things,"  said  Gerty,  looking 
round  the  room;  "  this  is  a  beautiful  room." 

•'  Why,  it  isn't  very  different  from  Mr.  Flint's.  It's  just 
the  same  size,  and  two  front  windows  like  his.  My  cup- 
board is  the  best;  yours  is  only  a  three-cornered  one;  but 
that's  all  the  difference." 

"  Oh,  but  yours  don't  look  a  bit  like  ours.  You  haven't 
got  any  bed  here,  and  all  the  chairs  stand  in  a  row,  and 
the  table  shines,  and  the  lloor  is  so  clean,  and  the  stove  is 
new,  and  the  sun  comes  in  so  bright !  I  wish  our  room 
was  like  this  !  I  think  ours  is  not  half  so  big.  Why, 
Uncle  True  stumbled  over  the  tongs  this  morning,  and  he 
said  there  wasn't  room  to  swing  a  cat." 

"  Where  were  the  tongs  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Sullivan. 

"  About  the  middle  of  the  floor,  marm." 

"  Well,  you  see  I  don't  keep  tilings  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor.  I  think  if  your  room  were  all  cleaned  up,  and  places 
found  for  everything,  it  would  look  almost  as  well  as  mine." 

"'I  wish  it  could  be  made  as  nice,"  said  Gerty;  '-'but 
what  could  be  done  with  those  beds?" 

"  I've  been  thinking  about  that.  There's  that  little 
pantry— or  bathing-room,  I  think  it  must  have  been  when 
this  house  was  new,  and  rich  people  lived  in  it;  that's  large 
enough  to  bold  a  small  bedstead  and  a  chair  or  two; 
'twould  be  quite  a  comfortable  little  chamber  for  you. 
The  rubbish  in  it  might,  just  MS  well  he  thrown  awav." 

"  Oh,  that'll  be  nice  !"  said  Gerty;  " '  theu   Uncle  True 


'20  77/7-:  LAVrj.i 

can  luive  his  bod  back  again,  and  I'll  sloe])  on  the  floor  in 
t  here." 

"  No,"   said     Mrs.    Sullivan:    ''you    shan't    sloop    on    the 

floor.      I've  got  avervgood  lit  tie  cross-legged  bedstead  t  hat 

my  Willie  slept  on  when  he  lived  at  home;  and   I'll  lend  it 

to  YOU,  if  you'll  take  good  care  of  it  and  of  e\ery thing  elso 

hat  is  put  into  Your  room." 

"Oh.  I  will,"'  said  (Jcrty.  "  I'.ut  can  T?"  added  she, 
,iesitating;  "do  you  think  I  can;'  1  don't  know  how  tc 
do  anvthing." 

"  You  never  have  boon  taught  to  do  am  thing,  my  child; 
but  a  girl  eight  years  old  can  do  many  things  if  she  is 
patient  and  tries  to  learn.  1  could  teach  you  to  do  a  great 
deal  that  would  be  useful,  and  that  would  help  your 
Uncle  True  verv  much." 

"  What  rould'  I  do?" 

''  You  rould  sweep  the  room  every  day,  you  could  make 
the  beds,  with  a  little  help  in  turning  them;  you  rould  set 
the  table,  toast  the  bread,  and  wash  the  dishes.  1'erhaps 
you  would  not  do  these  things  so  well  at  lirst  ;  but  YOU 
would  keep  improving,  and  get  to  he  a  nice' little  house- 
keeper.'' 

"Oh.  I  wish  I  could  do  something  for  Uncle  True!'' 
said  (iertv;  "  hut  how  could  I  ever  begin?''' 

"In  the  first  place,  you  must  have  things  cleaned  up  for 
you.  If  I  thought  .Mr.  Flint  would  like  it,  I'd  get  Kate 
.M'Carty  to  come  in  some  dav  and  help  us;  and  i  think  wo 
could  greatly  improve  his  home." 

"Oh,  I  know  he'd  like  it/'  said  (u'-rtv;  "'twould  be 
'grand  \  May  I  help?" 

"  Yes,  YOU  mav  do  what  you  can;  but  Kate  '11  bo  the 
be.-;  hand;  s.he's  strong,  and  knows  how  to  do  cleani'.g 
very  well." 

"'  Who's  she  :  "  said  Gcrty. 

"Kate? — She's  .Mrs.  M'Tarlv's  daughter  in  the  next, 
house.  Mr.  Flint  does  them  manv  a  good  tun;  saws 
wood,  and  so  on.  Thev  do  mo.-t  of  his  washing;  hut  thev 
can't  half  puv  him  ail  the  kindness  he's  done  that  familv. 
Kate'.-  a  clever  girl;  sln-'il  he  glad  to  come  and  work  for 
him  any  dav.  I  '11  a-k  her." 

"  \\  ill  she  rornr  1 1  .-morn  >\\  ? 

"  1'erhaps  she  will." 

"  Uncle,  Tr ue's  goin.;  to  he  gone  all  dav  to-morrow,"  said 


THE  iMir 

Gerty;  "he's  going  to  get  in  Mr.  Eustace's  coal.  Wouldn't 
it  be  a  good  time  ":  " 

"  Very,"  snid  Mrs.  Suliivan.  ''I'll  try  and  yet  Kate  tc 
come  to-morrow. 

Kate  came.  The  room  was  thoroughly  cleaned  and  put 
in  order,  forty's  ne\v  clothes  were  delivered  to  her  own 
keeping;  she  was  neatly  dres.-ed  in  one  suit,  the  other 
placed  in  a  little  chest  found  in  the  pantry,  and  which 
accommodated  her  small  vvardrojje  very  well. 

It  was  the  result  of  Mrs.  Sullivan's,  Kate's,  and  Gerty's 
combined  labour  which  astonished  True  on  his  return  from 
his  work;  and  the  pleasure  he  manifested  made  the  day  a 
memorable  one  in  (Jerty's  life,  one  to  be  marked  in  her 
memory  as  long  as  <he  lived,  as  being  the  first  in  which 
she  had  known  tl>nt  happiness — perhaos  the  highest  earth 
affords — of  feeling  fhat  she  had  been  instrumental  in  giv- 
ing joy  to  another,  ^erty  had  entered  heart  and  soul  into 
the  work,  when  she  had  been  allowed.  She  could  say  with 
truth,  "  \Ye  did  it  — Mrs.  Sullivan,  Kate,  and  /."  "Kerne 
but  a  loving  heart  like  TTrs.  Sullivan's  would  have  sym- 
pathized in  the  feeling  which  made  Hertvso  eager  to  help. 
But  xJtv  did,  and  allotted  to  her  tnar^v  little  services,  which 
the  child  felt  herself  more  blessed  in  being  permitted  to 
perform  than  she  would  have;  done  at  almost  any  gift  be- 
stowed upon  her.  She  led  True  about  to  show  him  how 
cleverly  Mrs.  Sullivan  had  made  the  most  of  the  room  and 
the  furniture;  how,  by  moving  the  bed  into  «,  recess,  she 
had  reserved  the  whole  square  aiea,  and  mac'.e  a  parlour  of 
it.  It  was  some  time  before  he  could  be  made  to  believe 
that  half  of  his  property  had  not  been  spirited  away,  so 
incomprehensible  was  it  to  him  that  so  much  additional 
space  and  comfort  could  be  acquired  by  a  little  system. 
But  his  astonishment  and  (Jerry's  de-light  reached  their 
climax  when  she  took  him  into  the  lumber-closet,  now 
transformed  into  a  snu£r  and  comfortable  bed-room. 

"  Well,  I  declare  !  Well,  I  declare  !  "  was  all  the  old 
man  could  say.  lie  sat  down  beside  the  stove,  now  polished, 
and  made,  as  Gerty  declared,  new,  just  like  Mrs.  Sullivan's; 
warmed  his  hands,  for  they  were  cold  with  being  out  in 
the  frosty  evening,  and  then  took  a  general  view  of  his 
reformed  domicile,  and  jf  (Jerty,  who  was  about  to  set  the 
table,  and  toast  the  bread  for  supper.  Standing  on  a 
she  was  taking  dowu  fhu  cups  and  saucers  from 


28  THE  LAVFLHIIITEH. 

among  the  regular  ro\\s  of  dishes  shining  in  three-cornered 
cupboard,  being  deposited  mi  the  lower  shelf,  where  she 
could  reach  them  from  the  iloor,  a  plate  containing  .some 
smoothly  cut  slices  of  bread,  which  the  thoughtful  Mrs. 
[Sullivan  had  prepared  for  her.  True  watched  her  motions 
for  a  minute  or  two,  and  then  indulged  in  a  short  soliloquy 
"'.Mrs.  Sullivan's  a  clever  woman,  sartain,  and  they've1' 
made  my  old  house  here  complete,  and  Gerty's  getting  to 
be  like  the  apple  of  my  eye,  and  I'm  as  happy  a  nuiu 
as " 


CHAPTER  V. 

WHERE  IS   HEAVEN? 

HERE  True  was  interrupted  by  a  sudden  and  uncere- 
monious opening  of  the  door.  ''Here,  Uncle  True,  here's 
your  package.  You  forgot  all  about  it,  I  guess;  and  1  for- 
got it,  too,  till  mother  saw  it  on  the  table,  where  I'd  laid 
it  down.  I  was  so  taken  up  with  just  coming  home,  you 
know." 

"Of  couse — of  course  !"  said  True.  "Much  obleeged  to 
you,  Willie,  for  fetchin'  it  for  me.  It's  brittle  .stuff  it's 
made  of,  and  most  likely  1  should  have  smashed  it  'fore  I 
got  it  home." 

"What  is  it?"- — I've  been  wondering." 

"  Why,  it's  a  little  knick-knack  I've  brought  home  for 
Gerty  here,  that— 

"Willie!  Willie!"  called  Mrs.  Sullivan  from  the  oppo- 
site room,  "have  VOT'I  been  to  tea,  dear?" 

"  No,  indeed,  mother;  have  you?  "' 

"  Why,  yes;  but  I'll  get  you' so.ne." 

"No,  no,"  said  True;  "Stay  ;:nd  take  tea  with  us, 
V'illie;  take  tea  here,  my  boy.  My  little  (lerty  is  making 
some  farn-'iis  toast,  and  I'll  have  the  tea  presently." 

*•  So  1  will/'  said  Willie!  "  No  matte!'  about  anv  sripper 
for  me,  mother,  I'm  going  to  have  my  tea  here  with  I'nde 
Triii'.  Come,  now,  let's  see  that's  in  the  bundle:  but 
first  I  want  to  see  little  (lertv:  mother's  been  telling  me 
about  her.  Where  i-  .-lit- ?  lias  siie  got  well?  She's 
been  very  sick,  haah't  she  ''  " 


TUB  LAMPLIGHTER  20 

"  Oli,  yes,  she's  nicely  now/'  said  True.  "Here,  Gerty, 
look  here.  Why,  where  is  she?  " 

"  There  she  is,  hiding  behind  the  settle,"  said  \Villie> 
laughing.  "  She  ain't  afraid  of  me,  is  she  ?" 

"  Well,  I  didn't  know  as  she  was  shy,"  said  True;  ''yon 
silly  little  u'irl,"  added  he,  "  come  out  here  and  see  Willie. 
This  is  Willie  Sullivan/' 

"  I  don't  want  to  see  him,"  said  Gerty. 

"Don't  want  to  see  Willie!"  said  True;  "why, yon 
don't  know  what  you're  savin'.  Wiiiie'ts  the  best  boy  that 
ever  was;  I  'speet  you  and  he  '11  be  great  friends  by-and- 

by." 

"  lie  won't  like  me,"  said  Gerty;  "  I  know  he  won't." 

"Why  shan't  I  like  yon:'''  said  Willie,  approaching 
the  corner  where  Gerty  had  hid  herself.  IFer  face  was 
covered  with  her  hands.  "I  guess  1  shall  like  you  first- 
rate  when  I  see  you." 

lie  stooped  down,  and,  taking  her  hands  from  her  face 
and  holding  them  in  his  own,  he  fixed  his  eyes  full  upon 
her,  and  pleasantly  said,  "How  are  you,  cousin  Gerty — 
how  do  you  do  ?  " 

"1  an't  your  cousin  \"  said  Gerty. 

"  Yes,  you  are,"  said  Willie;  "  Undo  Trtie's  your  uncle, 
and  mine  too! — so  we're  cousins — dont  you  see? — and  ] 
want  to  get  acquainted." 

Gerty  could  not  resist  Willie's  good-natured  words  and 
manner.  She  suffered  him  to  draw  her  out  of  the  corner 
towards  the  lighter  end  of  the  room.  As  she  came  near 
the  lamp,  she  tried  to  free  her  hands  in  order  to  cover  her 
face  up  again;  but  Willie  would  not  let  her,  and,  attract- 
ing her  attention  to  the  unopened  package,  he  succeeded 
in  diverting  her  thoughts  from  herself,  and  m  a  few 
minutes  she  was  quite  at  her  case. 

"  There,  Uncle  True  says  it's  for  you,"  said  Willie; 
"and  I  can't  think  what  'tis,  can  you?" 

Gerty  felt,  and  looked  wonderinglv  in  True's  face. 

"Undo  it,  Willie,"  said  True. 

Willie  produced  a  knife,  cut  the  string,  took  oif  the 
paper,  and  disclosed  one  of  those  white  plaster  images,  so 
familiar  to  every  one,  representing  the  litti**  Samm-l  in  an 
attitude  of  devotion. 

"  Oh,  now  pretty!  "  exclaimed  Gerty,  full  ^i  delight. 


"hr  'Till:  LAMPIJGHTKll 

"Why  didn't    1    think?"    said   Willie;    "I  might  have 

Known  what  'twas  by  feeling." 

"  Why!  did  you  ever  see  it  before  ?"  said  Gorty. 

"  Not  this  .-ami1  one:  1m;  I've  seer  lots  just  like  it." 

'•'Have  you?"  raid  (ierty.  "I  never  did.  I  think  it's 
tlic  beaut  ifullest  thing  that  ever  was.  Vncle  True,  did 
you  say  it  was  for  me  ?  "U'jiere  did  yon  get  it  ?" 

"  Jt  was  by  an  accident,  I  got  it.  A  few  inii.nfe.s  before 
t  met  you,  Willie,  I  was  sioppiu*  at  the  corner  to  light  my 
lamp,  adieu  I  saw  one  of  those  ft/rriu  boys  willi  a  si-  lit 
o'  these  tilings,  and  some  Mavk  ones  too,  all  set  .  ii[)  on  a 
board,  and  ho  was  \v;  ikir.g  ui:;]  \-jji  a-toji  of  h.is  head.  I 
was  just,  a  v.-oiidori'!  !i-'i\v  lie  kept  'em  there,  when  lie  hit 
the  board  agin  rny  lamp-post,  and  i!;eiii'st  thing  I  knew, 
•\vhaek  they  all  ve;\i!  Im'.i  f;pilf..  them  every  one.  J/uekv 
enough  for  iiii>\  there  was  a  great,  bank  of  soft  snow  elos(^ 
to  tiie  side-walk,  arid  ;!ie  most  of  'em  fell  inU>  that  and 
wasn't  hurt.  Some  v^;;:  o-i  to  the  brieks.  and  were 
smashed.  Well,  I  kind  <>'  pitied  ihe  felier;  for  it  was 
late,  and  1  thought-  like  enoagh  h.e  had:;'!,  had  mm  h  1m  k 
sellin'  of  'e;ii,  t'»  have  yo  ni.-.ny  lei';  on  his  hands  -  " 

"  On  hi?  head,  yon  mea.;,  '  ,-;,id  \\"iiii.'.>. 

"Yes,  Master  Willie,  or  (n\  tise  s;.ow,"  said  True;  "  any 
way  you've  a  mind  to  have  it.*' 

"And  I  know  wha*  yon  did.  lr;:e]<-  True,  just  as  well  as 
if  I'd  seen  yon,"  said  \\iliie;  ''\oii  s<-t  y-ui1  ladder  and 
lantern  right  down,  an  !  lielped  liim  to  ]>iek  'em  all  up  — 
that's  just  what  yoii  -.  be  pure  to  do  for  anybody/' 

"This  feller,  Willie,  didn't  wait  for  me  to  get  into 
trouble;  he  made  return  nu'ht  oil.  \\  h;  n  thev  \\n-e  ali 


me.  as  if  I'd  been  !;n:  blgp^st  g"ntlema;i  in  thr  land; 
talkin,'*  too,  he  wa-.  all  thi  [ime,  tiiouuii  !  eor'iln'i  in;d\i! 
out  a  \vo:'d  of  hi-  I  in:  :  and  tlifii  ii«  insi>ted  :>n  my  tak'n' 
fiiii.1  o'  t  he  fign  r-.  i  v  'tot  ake  it,  for  I  ilid  n't 

want  it  ;  but.  J  happened  lo  think  little  (lertv  jni^'ht  like 
it." 

"  Oh.  1  shall  like  i!  !  -aid  (Ii-rly.  '  1  uludl  like  it 
bet  trr  than  no.  no!  '.-,  •  •  c<\  bn!  almosl  <i*  /'••''  as  m  v 
kit  ten  :  M.  i!  y,  (/«  ,  .  at  \\  a.-  alive,  and  this 

"u-ll"'  lfi*t.        I  'I        .  ,'  •     i    •  I'itlL'    l'"'\    ?  " 

T.  rue,  tinding  that  <  iej'i^   v\a-  akeii   npuilii   the 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  32 

image,  walked  away  and  began  to  get  the  tea,  leaving  the 
two  children  to  entertain  each  other. 

'•»  You  must  take  care  and  not  break  it,  Gerty,"  said 
Willie.  "  We  had  a  Samuel  once,  just  like  it,  in  the  shop; 
and  I  dropped  it  out  of  my  hand  on  to  the  counter,  and 
broke  it  into  a  million  pieces." 

"  What  did  you  call  it?"  asked  Gerty. 

"A  Samuel;  they're  all  Samuels." 

"What  arc  S(i>i)iiil>'x  ?  "  inquired  Gerty. 

"Why,  that's  the  name  of  the  child  they're  tfiken  for.*" 

"  What  do  you  s'pose  he's  sit  tin''  on  his  knee  for?" 

Willie  laughed.     "  Why,  don't  you  know  ?  "  said  he. 

"Xo,"  said  Gerty;  "  what  is  lie  ?" 

"  He's  praying,"  said  Willie. 

'•  Is  that  what  he's  got  his  eyes  turned  up  for,  too  ?" 

"  Yes,  of  course;  lie  looks  up  to  heaven  when  he  prays.'1 

"Up  to  where?" 

"To  heaven." 

Gerty  looked  up  at  the  coiling  in  the  direction  In  which 
the  eyes  were  turned,  then  at  the  figure.  She  seemed  very 
much  dissatisfied  and  puzzled. 

''  Why,  Gerty,"  said  Willie,  "I  shouldn't  think  you 
knew  what  praying  was." 

"I  don't,"  said  Gerty;  "tell  me." 

"  Don't  you  ever  prav — prav  to  God  ?" 

"  Xo,  I  don't.— Who'is  God  ?     Where  irj  God  ?  * 

"Willie  looked  inexpressibly  shocked  at  Ge1-Vy's  igno- 
rance, and  answered  reverently,  "  God  is  in  he>m>n,  Gerty." 

"  1  don't  know  where  that  is,"  said  Gerty.  "  I  believe  I 
don't  know  nothin'  about  it." 

"1  shouldn't  think  you  did,"  said  WiP.ie.  "I  leliere 
heaven  is  up  in  the  sky;  but  my  Sunday-school  teacher 
says,  'Heaven  is  anywhere  where  goodness  is/  or  some 
sue))  thing,"  he  said, 

"  Are  the  stars  in  heaven  ?"  asked  Gerty. 

•  v  ? "  suid  Will  ie.    "  They're  in 

to  think  heaven  was." 
leave'),''1  said  ( !ertv. 
I.  von  \vill  go  some  time." 
't  any  but  ifood  |'ul !-..- 

"  No." 

*•  'I'hcn  I  (;an't  ever  go,''  said  Gerty,  mournfully, 

"  Why  not'-'"  abkcd  Willie j  "air't  you  good-." 


3'2  TUR  LAMPLIGHTER. 

•'Oli  no'  I'm  very  had." 

"What  a  queer  child!"  said  Willie.  "What  makes 
yon  think  yourself  so  very  bad  ?" 

"Oh.  1  a m,"  said  (Jerty,  in  a  very  sa/1  tone;  "I'm  the 
worst  of  all.  Tin  the  worst  child  in  the  world." 

"  Who  Uild  you  so?  " 

'•Everybody.  !Nan  firant  says  so,  and  she  says  every- 
body thinks  so;  I  know  it,  too,  myself." 

"  Is  Xan  (irant  the  cross  old  woman  you  used  to  live 
tvith  ?" 

'*  Yes.     How  did  you  know  she  was  cross?" 

"  Oh,  my  mother's  been  felling  me  about  her.  Well,  1 
want  to  know  it  she  didn't  send  you  to  school,  or  teach 
you  anything  ?" 

(lerty  shook  her  head. 

"  Why,  what,  lots  you've  got,  \o  learn!  What  did  you 
used  to  do  when  you  lived  there?" 

"  Nothing." 

"  Never  did  anything;  don't  know  anything;  my 
gracious!  " 

"  Yes,  I  do  know  one  tiling,"  said  fJeriy.  "I  know 
how  to  toast  bread; — your  mother  taught  me; — she  let  me 
toast  some  by  the  fin-  " 

As  she  spoke,  she  thought  of  her  own  neglected  toast, 
and  turned  towards  the  stove;  but  she  was  too  lute- — the 
toast  was  made,  the  supper  ready,  and  True  was  just  put- 
ting it  on  the  table. 

"  Oh,  Uncle  True."  said  she,  "  I  meant  to  get  the  tea." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  True,  "  but  it's  710  matter;  you  ca-n 
get  it  to-morrow." 

The  tears  came  into  Oerty's  eyes:  she  looked  very  much 
disappointed,  but  said  nothing.  They  all  sal  down  to 
supper.  Willie  put  the  Samuel  in  the  middle  of  the  table 
for  a  centre  ornament,  and  told  so  many  funny  stories 
that  (Jerty  laughed  heartilv,  forgot  that  she  did  not  make 
the  toast  herself,  forgot  her  sadnc.-s,  and  showed  herself, 
for  once,  a  merry  child.  After  tea,  she  sat  be.-ide  Willie 

on   the  "Teat   .-••  I'.le.  and,  in    IHT   peculiar   wav    L'a\e  him   a 

i  . 

dc.MTiptioii  <,f  brr  I i;V  a!    .Nun    (i rant's,  winding  np  with   a 
touching  account  "f  th'1  d<-a;h  of  her  kitten. 

Thf  I\M)  chiiiircli  U'ei'e  ii,  ;i  I'aifWav  lo  l.e."ome  :is  good 
fi'icii'ls  iis  True  could  possibly  wish.  True  sat  on  the 
oppos.jtt  Hide  of  the  stove,  smoking  his  pipe;  Inn  elbows  on 


TUB  LAMPLIGHTER  83 

his  knees,  his  eyes  bent  on  the  children,  and  his  ears 
drinking  in  all  their  conversation,  lie  laughed  when  they 
laughed;  took  long  whiffs  at  his  pipe  when  they  talked 
quietly;  ceased  smoking  entirely,  letting  his  pipe  rest  on 
his  knee,  and  secretly  wiping  away  a  tear,  when  Gerty  re- 
counted her  childish  griefs.  He  often  heard  it  afterwards, 
but  never  without  cri/iny. 

After  Gerty  had  closed  her  tale  of  sorrows,  she  sat  for  a 
moment  without  speaking,  then  becoming  excited,  as  her 
imgoverned  and  easily  roused  nature  dwelt  upon  its  wrongs, 
she  burst  forth  in  a  very  different  tone,  and  began  utter- 
ing the  most  bitter  invectives  against  .Nan  Grant.  The 
child's  language  expressed  unmitigated  hatred,  and  even  a 
hope  of  future  revenge.  True  looked  troubled  at  hearing 
her  talk  so  angrily.  Since  he  brought  her  home  he  had 
never  witnessed  such  a  display  of  temper,  and  had  fondly 
believed  that  she  would  always  be  as  quiet  and  gentle  as 
during  her  illness  and  the  few  weeks  subsequent  to  it. 
True£  own  lisposition  was  so  amiable  and  forgiving,  that 
he  could  not  imagine  that  anyone,  and  especially  a  little 
child,  should  long  retain  feelings  of  anger  and  bitterness. 
Gerty  had  shown  herself  so  mild  and  patient  since  she  had 
been  with  him,  that  it  had  never  occurred  to  him  to  dread 
any  difficult}  in  the  management  of  the  child.  Xow,  how- 
ever, as  he  observed  her  flashing  eyes,  and  noticed  the 
doubling  of  her  little  fist  as  she  menaced  Nan  with  her 
future  wrath,  he  had  an  undefined,  half-formed  presenti- 
ment of  corning  trouble  in  the  control  of  his  little  charge. 
For  the  moment  she  ceased,  in  his  eyes,  to  be  the  pet  and 
plaything  he  had  hitherto  considered  her.  He  saw  in  her 
something  which  needed  a  chock,  and  felt  himself  unfit  to 
apply  it. 

He  was*  totally  unfit  to  cope  with  a  spirit  like  Gerty 's. 
It  was  true  he  possessed  over  her  one  mighty  influence— 
her  strong  affection  for  him,  which  he  could  not  doubt. 
It  was  that  which  made  her  so  submissive  and  patient  in 
her  sickness,  so  grateful  for  his  care  and  kindness,  so 
anxious  to  do  something  in  return.  It  was  that  love,  illu- 
mined by  a  higher  light,  which  came  in  time  to  sanctify 
it,  that  gave  her,  while  yet  a  mere  girl,  a  woman's  coin-age, 
a  woman's  strength  of  heart  and  self-denial.  It  was  that 
which  cheered  the  old.  man's  latter  yours,  and  shed  joy  on 
his  dying  bed. 


84  THE  LA 

Willie  tried  once  or  twice  to  stop  tlic  current  of  her 
abusive  language;  but  .soon  desisted,  for  she  did  not  pay 
the  least  attention  to  bin).  lie  could  not  help  smiling  at  her 
childish  wrath,  nor  could  he  resist  sympathising  with  her 
in  a  degree.  .But  ho  was  conscious  that  (ierty  was  exhib't- 
ing  a  very  hot  temper,  and  began  to  understand  what  made 
evervhodv  think  her  so  bad. 

After  (ierty  had  railed  about  Nan  a  little  while,  she 
stopped  of  her  own  accord;  though  an  unpleasant  look 
remained  on  her  countenance.  It  soon  passed  away,  how- 
sver;  and  when,  a  little  later  in  the  evening.  Mrs.  Sullivan 
appeared  at.  the  door,  (ierty  looked  bright  and  happy, 
listened  with  evident  delight  while  True  uttered  warm  ex- 
pressions of  thanks  for  the  labour  which  had  been  under- 
taken in  his  behalf,  and,  when  Vv'ille  went,  away  with  his 
mother,  said  her  good  night,  and  asked  him  to  come  again 
so  pleasantly,  and  her  eyes  looked  so  bright,  that  "Willie 
said,  as  soon  as  they  were  out  of  hearing.  "  She's  a  queer 
little  thing,  au't  she,  mother  ?  But  I  kind  o'  like  her," 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE    FIKST    PRAYKR. 

IT  would  have  been  diilicult  to  find  two  children  of  the 
poorer  class  whose  situations  in  life  had  presented  a  greater 
contrast  than  those  of  (ierty  and  Willie.  (ierty  was  a. 
neglected  orphan;  she  had  received  little  of  that  care, 
and  still  less  of  that  love,  which  Willie  had  enjovod. 
^Irs.  Sullivan's  husband  was  an  intelligent  country  clergy- 
man; but  as  be  died  whon  Willie  was  a  baity,  leaving  little 
property  for  the  support  of  his  family,  the  widow  and  her 
child  went:  home  to  her  father.  The  old  man  needed  his 
daughter;  for  death  had  made  sad  inroads  in  his  house- 
hoH  since  .-he  left  it.  \\\\\\  he  was  alone. 

From  that  time  the  three  had  li\ed  together  in  hnmble 
comfort,  for,  though  poop,  industry  and  frugality  secured 
them  from  want.  \\  iliie  was  his  mother's  pride,  her  hope, 
her  tuaniLfuH  thought,  lihe  soured  JH>  i:arc  to  provide  i'or 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  35 

his  physical  comfort,  his  happiness,  and  his  education  and 
virtue. 

She  might  well  be  proud  of  a  boy  whose  uncommon 
beauty,  winning  disposition,  and  early  evidences  of  a  noble 
nature,  won  him  friends  even  among  strangers.  It  was 
his  broad,  open  forehead,  the  clearness  and  calmness  of  his 
full  grey  eye,  the  expressive  mouth,  so  determined  and  yet 
8O  mild,  the  well-developed  figure  and  ruddy  complexion, 
proclaiming  high  health,  which  gave  promise  of  power  to/* 
the  future  man.  Xo  one  could  have  been  in  the  boy's 
company  half  an  hour  without,  loving  and  admiring  him. 
lie  had  a  warm-hearted,  affectionate  disposition,  which  his 
mother's  love  and  the  world's  smiles,  had  fostered;  an 
unusual  flow  of  animal  spirits,  tempered  by  a  natural 
politeness  towards  his  superior*;  a.  quick  apprehension;  a 
read}' command  of  language;  and  a  siiK^-re  sympathy  in 
others' pleasures  and  pains,  lie  was  fond  of  study,  and 
until  his  twelfth  year  his  mother  kept  him  constantly  at 
school. 

At  that  time  he  had  an  opportunity  to  enter  into  the 
service  of  an  apothecary,  who  did  an  extensive  business, 
and  wanted  a  boy  to  assist  in  the  shop.  The  wages  offered 
by  Mr.  Bray  were  not  great,  but  there  was  a  prospect  of 
an  increased  salary;  and  il  was  not  a.  chance  to  be  over- 
looked. Fond  as  he  was  of  his  hooks,  he  had  long  been 
eager  to  bo  at  work,  helping  to  bear  the  burden  of  labour 
in  the  familv.  His  inother  and  grandfather  consented  to 
the  plan,  and  he  gladly  accepted  .Mr.  Kray's  proposals.  He 
was  sadly  missed  at  home;  for,  as  he  slept  at  his  employer's 
during  the  week,  he  rarely  could  make  a  passing  visit  to 
his  mother,  except  on  Saturday,  when  he  came  home  at 
night  and  passed  Sunday.  So  Saturday  night  was  Mrs. 
Sullivan's  happy  night,  and  the  Sabbath  became  a  more 
blessed  day  than  ever. 

When  Willie  reached  his  mother's  room  on  the  evening 
of  which  we  have  been  -peaking,  he  sat  down  with  her  and 
Mr.  Cooper,  and  for  an  hour  conversation  was  brisk  with 
them.  Willie  had  always  much  to  relate  concerning  tlio 
occurrences  of  the  week.  Mrs.  Sullivan  was  interested  in 
everything  that,  imerested  \\':liie.  and  it,  was  easy  to  ?ee, 
that  the  old  grandfather  was  more  entertained  by  the  bo\ 
than  he  was  willing  to  appear;  for  though  he  sat  with  his 
eyes  upon  the  floor,  and  did  not  seem  to  listen,  he  usually 


3f> 

lioanl  all  that  was  said.  I Ic  seldom  made  comments,  but 
would  occasional] v  utter  an  impat  lent  or  contemptuous 
expression  regard  in '4  individuals  <n'  the  world  in  general: 
therob1/ evidencing  \vant  of  coniidence  in  men's  honesty 
and  virtue,  and  t  his  tonncd  a  marked  trait  in  hi*?  character. 
"Willie's  spirits  would  receive  a  momentary  check,  for  he 
loved  and  trusted  ei'cri/btitf/f.  Willie  did  not.  fear  his 
Lrrand  fat  her,  who  had  never  hoen  severe  to  him,  or  inter- 
fered with  .Mrs.  Sullivan's  manaiM  ment  ;  hut  he  sometimes 
felt  chilled,  though  lie  hardl\'  kne\v  \\liv,  hv  his  want  of 
sympathy  wit  1 1  his  own  warm-heartedness,  (hi  t  he  present 
occasion  the  eonversat  ion  turned  upon  True  Flint  and  his 
ado[>ted  child.  Mr.  Cooper  had  heeii  unusnallv  hitter, 
and,  as  lie  took  his  lamp  to  1:0  to  hed.  declared  that  (iertv 
would  never  he  anything  l>ui  a  h'oulile  to  Flint,  who  was  a 
fool  not  to  send  her  to  the  almshouse  at  once. 

There  was  a  paus»  after  !  lie  old  man  left  the  room;  then 
"Willie  exclaimed,  "  Bother,  vhat  makes  grandfather  hate 
folks?" 

"  Why.  he  don't,  Willie." 

"1  don't  mean  exacilv  //-•/•'  1  don't  suppose  he  does 
fhdl,  f/iu'fi'-  ;  hut  he  don't  seem  to  think  a  pvat  deal  of 
anvhody—  do  von  think  he  do(-«  ': 

"Oh  ves;  he  doe.-  iiot  sho\v  it  m  ueh."  said  "M  rs.  Su  Hi  van, 
"hut  he  t  hinks  a  L'Tea!  deal  of  you,  \\'illie.  and  he  wouldn't 
have  anvthinv,'  haj-pen  to  me  for  the  world:  and  he  likes 
]\Ir.  Mint,  and  — 

"(Mi  yes;  hut  1  di>n't  mean  thai;  he  doesn't  Ihink 
there's  much  goodness  ir.  folks,  nor  to  think  anybody's 
goinLf  l o  turn  out  \\v\\.  and  — 

"  S'ou're  thinking  of  \\  hat   !;<•  said  about  little  d'ert  v.'' 

"  \\C11,  she  an';  the  "iil\  one.  Thai's  ul,at  m;:de  in" 
~])cak  of  ir  now,  !'i,!  l'\c  nltcii  ndiccd  \\  heforo.  particu- 
lai'lv  .-nice  I  went  ;tw;iv  li'oin  home,  an  1  am  onlv  hei'e  nm-i-; 
a  \\  ei'k.  Now  I  t  iiink  e\  ej-vi  h  iiiu'  of  Mr.  I',  i  a  \  :  and  when 
1  \\as  telling  In  \>;  iiilich  ^nod  iir  onl.  and  how  kind  lie  uas 
to  old  Mi1.-.  Morri.-  and  IMT  -]^l-.  r.  urar.d  fat  her 

looked  jn.-kii-  if  he  didn't  helieMj  it,  or  iinln'i  think  much 
r.f  if." 

"(  Mi,  well,   \\  i ' :  '••.    ',  '         inn    t  I'.'t     wonder    111  lien    at     that. 

( I  r.i  nd  p,i's     had     ma1:  v    ii   -  en  is.        }  <>\\     know    he 

_  ! ,  I    '  •  \  i  •  i  \  ;  i  j :  i  •_:  '  ;'    I    '      •  •    h'  i  i  •  h  a  rd .  a  n  d    t  h  e  l 'e  \\'  a  s   n  o 

fcj.^;  ;o   ihc  ',.  i..-   i...  1  ;iiiji  iiiiii;  u!;d    i  here  was  Aunt 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  3? 

Sarah's  husband — he  Denied  fo  bo  .such  a  fine  fellow  when 
Sally  married  him,  but;  ho  cheated  father  at  last,  so  that 
he  had  to  mortgage  his  house  in  High  Street,  and  dually 
gave  it  up  entirely,  lie's  dead  now.  and  I  don't  want  to 
say  anything-  against  him:  but  he  didn't  prove  what  we 
expected,  and  it  broke  Sally's  heart.  That  was  a  dreadful 
trial  to  father,  for  she  was  tiie  youngest,  and  his  pet.  And 
just  after  that,  mother  was  taken  down  with  her  death- 
stroke,  and  a  quack  doctor  prescribed  for  her,  and  father 
always  thought  that  did  her  more  hurt  than  good.  So  that 
he  has  had  a  great  deal  to  make  him  look  on  the  dark  side 
now,  but  you  mustn't  mind,  it,  Willie:  you  must  take  care 
and  turn  out  well  yourself,  my  son,  and  then  he'll  be  proud 
enough;  he's  as  pleased  us  he  can  be  when  he  hears  you 
praised, and  expects  great  things  of  you  one  of  these  days." 

Here  the  conversation  ended;  but  Willie  added  another 
to  his  many  resolves,  that,  if  his  health  and  strength  were 
spared,  he  would  prove  to  his  grandfather  that  hopes  were 
not  always  deceitful,  and  tiiat  fears  were  sometimes 
groundless. 

Oh,  what  a  glorious  thing  it  is  for  a  youth  when  he  has 
ever  present  with  him  a  high,  a  noble,  and  unselfish 
motive!  "What  an  incentive  to  exertion,  perseverance,  and 
self-denial!  Fears  that  would  otherwise  appal,  discourage- 
ments that  would  dishearten,  labours  that  would  weary, 
opposition  that  would  crush,  temptation  that  would  over- 
come, all,  all  lie  powerless,  when,  with  a  single-hearted 
and  worthy  aim,  he  struggles  1'or  the  vict.orv!  IVrsons 
horn  in  wealth  and  luxury  seldom  achieve  greatness.  They 
were  not  born  for  labour;  and,  without  labour,  nothing 
that  is  worth  having  can  be  won.  A  motive  Willie  had 
long  had.  LI  is  grandfather  was  old.  his  mother  weal;,  and 
both  poor.  He  must  be  the  stall'  of  iheirold  age;  must 
labour  for  their  support  and  euml'ori  ;  he  must  do  inure : — 
thev  hoped  great  tilings  of  him;  thev  ?//?/*/  not  be  disap- 
pointed. He  did  not,  however,  while  arming  himself  for 
future  conllic.t  with  the  world,  forget  the  present,  but  sat 
down  and  learned  his  Sunday-school  lessons.  After  which, 
according  to  custom,  he  read  alond  in  the  Bible:  and  then 
Mrs.  Sullivan,  laying  her  hand  «:\  the  head  of  her  son, 
offered  up  a  simple,  heart-felt  prayer  for  the  hoy-— one  of 
those  mother's  prayers  which  the  child  listens  to  with 
reverence  and  love,  and  remembers  for  life. 


88  THE  LAMPLWITTETl 

After  Willie  went  homo  that  evening,  and  Cody  w;*« 
left  alone  with  Trur.  slie  t:ii  beside  h,m  for  some  time 
\\ithoutspeaking.  Her  eye-  wore  inteiitlv  lixed  upon  tho 
white  intake  which  l.iy  in  her  lap.  True  was  not  the  tirst 
to  speak;  hut  linding  (lerf/  iinusualiv  quiet,  he  looked 
inquiringly  in  her  face,  and  said-— "  Well,  Willie's  a  pretty 
clever  sort  of  a  bov,  isn't  lie  ?  '' 

(ierty  answered  "Yes"  without,  however,  seeming  tu 
know  what  she  was  saying. 

'•  You  like  him,  don't  \ou  ?"  said  True. 

"Very  much,"  said  <iertv,  in  the  same  ahsent  wa\.  It 
was  not  A\  illie  she  was  thinking  of.  True  waited  for 
(.ierty  to  talk  ahoiit  her  new  aequaintanee;  hut  .-he  did  not 
Speak  for  a  minute  or  two.  Then  looking  up  suddenly, 
she  said — "  I'nde  True,  what  doe.-  Samuel  prav  to  (iod 
fur  ?  " 

True  stared.  "Samuel!— pray!— I  guess  1  don't  know 
exactly  what  you're  saving  '' 

"  Why,'' .said  (Jerty,  holding  up  tlie  image.  "  Willie  says 
this  little  hoy's  name  is  Samuv!;  and  that,  he  sits  on  his 
knees,  and  puts  his  '•  en  hi-  hrea-t  an.  and  looks  up, 

because  he's  pra\iug  to  (jud,  that  ii\es  np  in  the  sky.  1 
don't  know  what  lie  means-  irnii  up.  in  the  -ky— do  you  !'  '' 

True  took  the  image  and  locked  at  it  attentively; 
scratched  his  head,  and  said  "Well,  1  .-'pose  he's  ahoiit, 
right.  This  'ere  ehild  is  pra\  in',  sartain,  though  I  (iidn't 
think  on  it  afore.  l'>;;t  I  don't  ji-t  know  what  he  calU  it 
a  Samuel  for.  \\  i-'li  :;sk  \\\\\i  sometime.'' 

''Well,  what  doc,  he  pr.i\   for,  I'mle  True?'' 

"'Oh,  he  prays  to  make  him  good:  it  makes  folks  good 
*€  prav  to  (iod." 

«•  Can  (iod  make  folks  good  ?" 

*' ^'es.     (iod  is  very  ':••:•;   Jle  can  do  anything." 

"How  can  lie  /.  •'/•  /" 

^  He  iirars  a:  d   -ees  evervthing  in  tile  world.'*' 

"And  <loe-  Hi    live  ;  .  ':  " 

"  Ye.-.'''  said  True      "  in  lu-a\  en." 

Manv  more  <\\  •  I  '  -  (ii  1 1  \  asked,  which  True  eon  Id  not 
answer:  many  IJHC-;  ioi.s  that  he  had  never  asked  himself. 
True  ha'1  a  lit  rt.  and  a  child-like  faith; 

he  had  'ii  joy i  lii  religious  inst  ruet  ion,  hut  he. 

em  nest  ly  !  ried  t  .  ii  .  ••  .  •  •  •  he  li^ht  he  had.  True  had 
never  intjuiivi'l  into  !:  e  •  ..:.'•,.-  of  bi-liel'.  and  he  was  not 


THE  LAMPIJOITTEn.  39 

prepared  to  answer  the  finest  ions  suggested  by  the  inquisi- 
tive mind  of  little  Gerty.  lie  answered  her  us  well  as  he 
could,  however;  and,  where  he  was  at  fault,  referred  her 
to  Willie,  who,  he  told  her,  went  to  Sunday-school,  and 
knew  a  great  deal  about  such  things.  All  I  he  information 
that  Gerty  could  gain  amounted  to  the  knowledge  of  these 
facts:  that  God  was  in  heaven;  that  His  power  was  great; 
and  that  people  were  made  better  by  prayer.  But  her 
mind  was  so  intent  upon  the  subject,  that  the  thought 
even  of  sleeping  in  her  new  room  could  not  efface  it. 
After  she  had  gone  to  bed,  with  the  white  image  hugged 
close  to  her  bosom,  and  True  had  taken  away  the  lamp, 
she  lay  for  a  long  time  with  her  eyes  wide  open.  Just  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed  was  the  window.  The  sky  was  bright 
with  stars;  and  thev  revived  her  old  wonder  and  curiosity 
as  to  the  Author  of  such  distant  and  brilliant  lights.  As 
she  gazed,  there  darted  through  her  mind  the  thought, 
"  God  lit  them!  Oh.  how  great  lie  must  be!  But  a  child 
might  pray  to  Him!"  She  rose  from  her  little  bed,  ap- 
proached the  window,  and,  falling  on  her  knees  and  clasp- 
ing her  hands  precisely  in  the  attitude  of  Samuel,  she 
looked  up  to  heaven.  She  spoke  no  word,  but  her  eyes 
glistened  with  a  tear  that  stood  in  each.  Was  not  each 
tear  a  prayer  ?  She  breathed  no  petition,  but  she  longed 
for  God  and  virtue.  Was  not  that  very  wish  a  prayer  ? 
Her  little,  uplifted  heart  throbbed  vehemently.  Was  not 
each  throb  a  prayer  ?  And  did  not  God  in  heaven,  with- 
out whom  not  a  sparrow  falls  to  the  ground,  hear  and 
accept  that  first  homage  of  a  little,  untaught  child;  and 
did  it  not  call  a  blessing  down? 


CHAPTER  VII. 

TR  E  A  S  I"  1 1 K  D    W 110  X  G  3. 

Revenge,  at  first  though  sweet, 

Bitter  ere  long  buck  on  itself  recoils." — 


THE  next  day  was  Sunday.  True  generally  went  to 
church  half  the  dav  at  least,  with  the  so.xtoii'.s  familv;  but 
Gerty  having  no  bonne!  could  not  go.  and  True  would  not 


40  TITK  LAlfPLTGHTKn. 

leave  her.  So  they  spent.  ;he  morning  wandering  round 
among  the  wharves  and  looking  at.  the  .ships,  (iertv  wear- 
ing her  old  shawl  over  her  head. 

Willie  came  in  the  evening  to  say  good-bye  before  re- 
turning to  Mr.  Brr.y's.  lie  was  in  a  hurry,  for  his  master 
had  his  doors  closed  early,  especially  on  a  Sunday  night. 
But  Mr.  Cooper  made  his  usual  visit;  and  when  he  had 
Lrone,  True,  tinding  (ierty  sound  asleep  on  the  settle, 
thought  it  a  pity  to  wake  her,  and  laid  her  in  bed  with 
her  clothes  on. 

She  did  not  wake  until  morning;  and  then,  surprised 
ami  amused  at  finding  herself  dressed,  ran  out  to  ask  True 
how  it  happened.  True  was  making  the  tire;  and  (iertv 
having  been  told  all  about  it.  helped  to  get  the  breakfast 
ready,  and  to  put  the  room  in  order.  She  followed  Mrs. 
Sullivan's  instructions,  and  in  a  few  weeks  she  learned  to 
make  herself  useful  in  many  ways,  and,  us  Mrs.  Sullivan 
had  prophesied,  gave  promise  of  becoming  a  clever  little 
housekeeper.  Her  active  and  willing  feet  saved  True 
many  steps,  and  she  was  of  essential  aid  in  keeping  the 
rooms  neat,  that,  being  her  especial  ambition.  Mrs.  Sulli- 
van looked  in  occasionally,  to  praise  and  assist  her;  and 
nothing  made  (Jerty  happier  than  learning  how  to  do  some 
new  thing.  She  met  with  a  few  trials  and  discourage- 
ments, to  be  sure.  Kate  M'Cartv  thought  herthe  smartest 
child  in  the  world,  and  woiiM  oft  come  in  and  wash  the 
iloor,  or  do  some  other  work  which  required  more  strength 
than  ( ierty  possessed. 

One  Sundav  (iertv,  who  had  a  nice  little  hood,  bought 
liv  True,  was  returning  with  Mr.  Cooper.  Mr.  Flint,  and 
Willie,  from  the  afternoon  service  at  church.  The  two 
old  men  were  e igaged  in  discussion,  and  the  children 
talked  earnestly  about  the  church,  the  minister,  the  people, 
and  the  music,  all  of  which  were  new  to  (ierty,  and  greatly 
excited  her  wonder. 

As  they  drew  near  home,  Willie  remarked  how  dark  it 
was  ^TO \vinir  in  the  streets;  and  then,  looking  down  at 
(iert  v,  whom  he  held  liv  the  ha  I  id.  lie  said.  "  <  iert  v,  do  you 
ever  go  out  with  I"  nde  True,  and  sec  him  light  t  he  lamps  ?  " 

"  No.  I  never  did."  -aid  <  "•!'!  v.  "since  the  first  niirht  I 
came.  I've  wanted,  bin  it"  '  —  cold,  lie  Would  not  let 

Hie ;  he  .-aid  1  'd  have  t  lie  ',-..••,  aim'' 

"it  wuu't  be  cold  this,  eveniic/,"  taid  Willie,  "it'll  be  a 


THE  LAMPLTGTTTETl  41 

beautiful  night;  siml.  if  Uncle  True's  willing,  we  will  go 
with  him.  I've  often  been;  you  can  look  into  the  windows 
ami  see  folks  drinking  tea,  and  sitting  round  the  lire  in 
their  parlours." 

"And  I  like  to  see  him  light  those  great  lamps,"  said 
Gerty;  "  they  make  it  look  so    bright  and    beautiful  all 
around.     I  hope  he'll  let  us  go;  I'll  ask  him;  come/'  sai.y 
she,  pulling  him  by  the  hand. 

"No — wait/'  said  Willie;  "he's  busy  talking  with 
grandpa — we  can  ask  him  at  home." 

As  soon  as  they  reached  the  gate  she  broke  away  from 
him,  and,  rushing  up  to  True,  made  known  her  request. 
lie  readily  consented,  and  the  three  soon  started  on  the 
rounds. 

For  a  time  Gerty's  attention  was  so  engrossed  by  tho 
lamplightirig  that  she  could  see  and  enjoy  nothing  else. 
But  when  they  reached  the  corner  of  the  street,  and  came 
in  sight  of  a  large  apothecary's  shop,  her  delight  knew  no 
bounds.  The  brilliant  colours  displayed  in  the  windows 
captivated  her  fancy;  and  when  Willie  told  her  that  his 
master's  shop  was  similar  she  thought  it  must  be  a  fine 
place  to  spend  one's  life  in.  Then  she  wondered  why  this 
vvas  open  OK  Sunday,  when  all  the  other  stores  were  closed, 
and  Willie,  stopping  to  explain,  they  found  that  True  was 
some  distance  in  advance.  He  hurried  Gerty  along,  tell- 
ing her  that  they  were  now  in  the  finest  street  they  should 
pass  through,  and  they  must  haste,  for  they  had  nearly 
reached  the  house  he  most  wanted  her  to  see.  When  they 
came  up  with  True,  he  was  placing  his  ladder  against  a 
post  opposite  a  line  block  of  buildings.  Many  of  the  front 
windows  were  shaded,  so  that  the  children  could  not  see 
in;  but  some  had  no  curtains,  or  they  h;id  not  vet  been 
drawn.  In  one  parlour  there  was  a  pleasant  wood-lire, 
around  which  a  group  were  gathered;  and  here  Gerty 
would  fain  have  lingered.  In  another,  a  brilliant  chande- 
lier was  lit,  and  though  the  room  was  vacant,  the  furniture 
was  so  showy,  and  the  whole  so  brilliant,  that  the  child 
clapped  her  hands  in  delight,  and  Willie  could  not  prevail 
upon  her  to  leave1  the  spot,  until  he  told  her  that  farther 
down  the  street  was  another  house,  equally  attractive, 
where  she  would  perhaps  see  some  beautiful  children. 

"How  do  you  know  there'll  be  children  '.here  1'  "  said 
she,  as  they  walked  along. 


42  TUK  LAMPLIGHTER 

"  [  don't  know,  certainly,"  said  Willie;  "lint  i  think 
there  will.  They  used  always  to  be  up  at  the  window 
when  I  came  with  I'ncle  True,  last  winter." 

"How  many?"  asked  (iorty. 

''Three,  I  helieve;  there  Mas  one  little  girl  with  such 
beautiful  curls,  and  such  a  sweet,  cunning  little  face.  .She 
looked  like  a  wax  doll,  only  a  great  (leal  prettier." 

"Oh,  i  hope  we  shall  see  her  ! "  said  (Jerty,  dancing 
along  on  the  tops  of  her  toes. 

"There  they  are!7''  exclaimed  Willie;  "'all  three,  1  de- 
clare, just  as  they  used  to  be!" 

"  Where?"  said  (ierty;  "where?" 

"  Over  opposite,  in  the  great  stone  house.  Here,  let's 
crossover.  It's  muddy;  I'll  carry  you.'' 

Willie  lifted  (ierty  carefully  over  the  mud.  and  they 
ftood  in  front  of  the  house.  True  had  not  yet  come  up. 
It  was  he  that  the  children  were  watching  for.  (iertv  was 
not  the  only  child  that  loved  to  see  the  lamps  lit. 

It  was  now  quite  dark,  .-o  that  persons  in  alight  room 
could  not  see  any  one  out  of  doors;  but  Willie  and  (iertv 
had  so  much  better  chance  to  look  in.  The  mansion  was 
u  line  one,  evidently  the  home  of  wealth.  A  clear  c  al 
lire,  and  a  bright  lain])  in  the  centre  of  1 1  ;>  room,  shed 
abroad  their  cheerful  blaze.  Rich  carpets,  deeply  tinted 
curtains,  pictures  in  gilded  frames,  and  huge  mirrors,  re- 
flecting the  whole  on  every  side,  gave  (iertv  her  firs;  im- 
pressions of  luxurious  life.  There  was  an  air  of  comfort 
combined  with  all  this  elegance,  which  made  it  si  ill  more 
fascinating  to  the  child  of  poverty  and  want.  A  table 
was  bountifully  spread  for  tea;  the  cloth  of  snow-white 
clamask,  the  shining  plate,  above  all,  the  home-like  hiss- 
ing tea-kettle,  had  a  most  inviting  look.  A  gentleman  i,i 
'gav  .-Uppers  was  in  an  easy  chair  by  the  tire;  a  ladv  in  -i 
gav  cap  was  superintending  a  servant -girl's  arrangenicT.iS 
at  t  he  tea-table  ;  and  the  children  of  the  household,  smiling 
and  happv,  were  crowded  together  on  a  window  seat,  look- 
ing out,  as  we  have  just  narrated. 

They  were  sweet,  lovely-looking  little  creatures;  es- 
pecial lv  a  n'irl.  of  the  same  age  as  (iertv,  the  eldest  of  the 
three.  Her  fair  hair  fell  in  long  ringlets  over  a  neck'  as 
white  as  simw;  she  had  blue  eves,  a  cherub  face,  ;uid  ;i 
little  round  plump  figure.  <Iertv's  admiration  and  rapture 
Were  such,  that  she  cou'd  iiud  uu  expression  for  them,  and 


THE  lA 


directing  Willie's  Tint  ice  first  to  one  tiling  and  then  an- 
other; ''  Oh,  Willie,  isn't,  she  a  darling?  and  see  what  a 
beautiful  lire  —  what  a  splendid  lady!  \Vhat  is  that,  OIL 
the  table  ?  I  guess  it's  good!  There's  a  big  looking-glass; 
and  oil,  Willie!  an't  they  dear,  handsome  eiiildreii  ?  " 

True  IUHV  catne  up,  and  as  his  torch-light  swept  along 
the  side-walk  Gerty  and  \Yillie  became  the  subjects  of 
notice  and  conversation.  The  curly-haired  girl  saw  them, 
and  pointed  them  out  to  the  notice  of  the  other  two. 
Though  Gerty  could  not  know  what  they  were  saying,  she 
did  not  like  being  stared  at  and  talked  about;  and  hiding 
behind  the  post,  she  would  not  move  or  look  up,  though 
Willie  laughed  at  her,  and  told  her  it  was  now  her  turn 
to  be  looked  at.  When  True  moved  off,  she  began  to  run, 
so  as  to  escape  observation;  but  Willie  calling  to  her,  and 
saying  that  the  children  were  gone  from  the  window,  she 
ran  back  to  have  one  more  look,  and  was  just  in  time  to 
see  them  taking  their  places  at  the  tea-table.  Then  the 
servant-girl  drew  down  the  window-blinds.  Gerty  then 
took  Willie's  hand,  and  they  tried  to  overtake  True. 

"  Shouldn't  you  like  to  live  in  such  a  house  as  that 
Gerty!  "  said  Willie. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  Gerty;  "an't  it  splendid?" 

"  I  wish  I  had  just  such  a  house/'  said  Willie.  "  I  mean 
one  of  these  days." 

"  Where  will  you  get  it  ? "  exclaimed  Gerty,  much 
amazed  at  so  bold  a  declaration. 

"  Oh,  I  shall  work,  and  grow  uch.  and  buy  it/' 

"  You  can't;  it  would  take  a  lot  o'  money!  " 

"I  know  it;  but  1  can  earn  a  lot,  and  1  will,  too.  The 
gentleman  that  lives  in  that  grand  house  was  a  poor  boy 
when  he  first  came  to  Boston;  and  why  can't  one  pool  boy 
get  rich  as  well  an  another  ?  " 

"  I  Low  do  you  suppose  he  got  so  much  money  ?  " 

"I  don't  know  how  //''  did;  there  are  a  great  many 
ways.  Some  people  think  it's  all  lu<;k,  but  i  guess  it's  as 
much  smartness  as  anything." 

"  Are  vou  smart  ?  " 

Willie'laughed.  "  An't  1  ?"  said  he.  "TCI  don't  turn 
out  a  rich  man  one  of  these  davs.  \ou  mav  sav  i  an't." 

"  I  know  what  I'd  do  if  1  u;is  ri.-h,"  said  Gertv. 

"  What?"  asked  Willie. 

"  First,  I'd    buy  a  great  niee  -h.iii   lor  Uncle  True,  with 


44  TT1K  LAMPLIGHTER. 

cushion?  all  in  the  inside,  and  bright  llowers  on  it-— just 
exactly  like  that  one  the  gentleman  was  sitting  in;  ami 
next,  I'd  have  great,  hig  lamps,  ever  so  manv  all  in  a 
bunch,  so  as  to  make  the  room  as  liyht — as  liylti  as  it 
could  be! " 

"  Seems  to  me  you're  mighty  fond  of  lights,  Gerty/' 
said  Willie. 

"  I  he,"  said  the  child.  "  I  hate  old,  dark,  black  places; 
I  like  stars,  and  sunshine,  and  tires,  and  Uncle  Tnu-V 
torch — 

"And  I  like  bright  eyes!"  interrupted  Willie;  "yours 
look  just  like  stars,  they  shine  so  to-night.  A  n't  we  hav- 
ing a  good  time  ':  " 

"  Yes,  real." 

And  so  thev  went  on— Gertv  dancing  along  the  side- 
walk, Willie  sharing  in  her  gaietv  and  jov,  and  glorving  in 
the  responsibility  of  entertaining  and  protecting  the  wild 
little  creature.  Thev  talked  of  how  thev  would  spend 
that  future  wealth  which  they  both  calculated  upon  one 
day  possessing;  for  Gerty  had  caught  Willie's  spirit,  and 
she,  too.  meant  to  work  and  grow  rich.  Willie  said  his 
mother  was  to  wear  a  gay  cap.  like  that  of  the  lady  they 
had  seen;  this  made  Gerty  laugh.  She  thought  that  de- 
mure little  widow  would  be  ridiculous  in  a  (lowered  head- 
gear. Good  taste  is  inborn,  and  (Jertv  had  it,  in  her.  She 
fell  that  .Mrs.  Sullivan,  at  t  ired  in  anvthing  that  was  not 
simple,  neat,  and  sober-looking,  would  altogether  lose  her 
identitr.  Willie  had  no  ,-eili-h  seln-mes:  the  generous 
hov  suggested  nothing  for  his  own  grat  itieat  ion  :  it  was  for 
the  rest  he  mean!  to  labor,  and  in  and  through  them  that 
lie  looked  for  his  reward,  llappv  eliildi'en!  \\iiai  do 
thev  uant  of  wealth?  \\liat  of  anything,  material  01 
tangible,  more  liian  ihev  now  possess?  Thev  have  \\hai 
i<  \\nrtli  nioiv  than  riches  or  fame  — thev  arc  full  of  child- 
liooii's  faith  and  hopp.  \\'i:h  a  fancy  and  imagination 
Unchecked  b»"  disaplioint  inent,  tm-v  are  building  thoso 
same  ca.-th  s  that  >o  manv  thousand  childi'en  ha\e  In. ill 
before,  that  children  will  alwavs  be  biiihling  to  the  end  of 
time.  Kar  otT  in  the  distance  thev  .-ee  bright  thing-,  and 
know  liot  what  myths  thc\  are  [ Udeceive  not  the  iil'h' 
believers,  ve  wise  ojirs!  (  heck  !io|  that  (Iod-g!\en  hope- 
i  will,  pc'-ha  ps.  i  i  I  s  ai  ;-v  flight ,  lift  t  hem  it: 
over  man\  a  rough  spot  in  life's  road,  it  lasts  not, 


T1IK  LAMrJ.KJUTER.  45 

long  at  the  best;  then  check  it  not,  for  as  it  dies  out  the 
way  grows  hard. 

They  had  reached  the  last  lamp-post  in  the  street,  but 
scarcely  had  they  gone  a  dozen  steps  before  Gerty  stopped 
short,  and,  positively  refusing  to  proceed  any  further, 
pulled  hard  at  Willie's  hand,  and  tried  to  induce  him  to 
retrace  his  steps. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Gerty  ?  "  said  lie,  "  are  you  tired  ?" 

''•  Xo,  oh  no!  but  I  can't  go  any  further." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Oh,  because — because — "  and  here  Gerty  putting  her 
mouth  close  to  Willie's  ear,  whispered,  "  there  is  Xan 
Grant's;  I  see  the  house!  I  had  forgot  Uncle  True  went 
there;  and  I  am  afraid!  " 

"Oho!"'  said  Willie,  drawing  himself  up  with  dignity, 
"I  should  like  to  know  what  you're  afraid  of,  when  I'm 
with  you!  Let  her  touch  you  if  she  dares!  A] id  Uncle 
True,  too! — I  xltould-  laugh." 

Very  kindly  did  Willie  plead  with  the  child,  telling  her 
that  Xan  would  not  be  likely  to  see  them,  but  they  might 
see  licr;  and  that  was  just  what  he  wanted — nothing  he 
should  like  better.  Gerty's  fears  were  soon  allayed. 
When  they  stood  in  front  of  the  house,  Gerty  was  rather 
hoping  than  otherwise  to  catch  sight  of  Xan.  Xnn  was 
standing  opposite  tin;  window,  engaged  in  an  animated 
dispute  with  one  of  her  neighbours.  Her  countenance 
expressed  great  auger,  and  her  face  was  now  so  sufficient 
an  index  to  her  character,  that  no  one  could  see  her  thus 
and  afterwards  question  her  right  to  the  title  of  vixen, 
virago,  or  scold. 

"  Which  is  she?"  said  AVillie;  "the  tall  one,  swinging 
the  coffee-pot  in  her  hand  ?  I  guess  she'll  break  the 
handle  off,  if  she  don't  look  out." 

"  Yes,"  said  Gerty,  "that's  Xan." 

"  What's  she  doiifg?" 

"  Oh,  she's  lighting  with  Mrs.  Kirch:  she  does  always 
with  somebody.  She  don't  see  us,  does  she  ?" 

"No,  she's    too   busy.      Come,  don't,  let's 
ugly-looking  woman,    just    as    I    knew 
enough  of  her.  and  I'm  sure  von  have 

Gerty  lingered.      Courageous    in    tiie 
WHS  safe  and    unseen,  she  \vas  gaxing  at   Nan,  anil  her  eye.-' 
glistened,  not.  with  the  iunoceut  ex  ci  tern  out  of  a  cheerful 


lf>  THE  LAMPLICIITETl 

heart,  hut  with  the  fire  nf  kindled  passion —  a  fire  that  Xan 
had  kindled  long  ago,  \vhidi  liad  not  yet  gone  out,  and 
which  the  sight  of  Man  had  now  revived  in  full  .force. 
"Willie,  thinking  it  was  time  to  be  at  home,  and  perceiving 
Mr.  Flint  and  his  torch  far  down  the  street,  left  ( ierty,  and 
started  himself,  to  draw  her  on,  saying.  "  Come,  (ierty,  1 
can't,  wait." 

Cierty    turned,   saw   that    he  was   going,   then,   quick    • 
lightning,  stooped,  and  picking  up  a   stone.  Hung  it   at  i 
window.     There  was  a   crash   of  broken   glass,  and   an   c.\ 
clamation   in   .Nan's  well-known   voice;   i,ul  (iertv  was   not 
there  to  see  the  result.     The   instant    >he   heard   the  crasli 
her  fears  returned,  and  flying   past   \\  illie,  .she  paused   not 
until  she  was  safe  hy  the  side  of  True. 

Willie  did  not  overtake  them  until  they  were  nearly 
home,  and  then  came  running  up,  exclaiming,  hrealhlessiy, 
"  Why,  (ierty,  do  you  know  what  you  did  'J.  —  You  broke 
the  window!  '' 

(iertv  jerked  her  shoulders  from,  side  to  side  to  avoid 
Willie,  pouted,  and  declared  that  was  what  she  meant,  to 
do. 

True  inquired  what  window?  and  (ieriy  acknowledged 
what  she  had  done,  and  avowed  that  she  did  it  on  purpose. 
True  and  Willie  were  shocked  and  silent,  (ierty  was  silent 
too,  for  the  rest  of  t  he  walk  :  t  here  were  clouds  on  her  face, 
and  she  felt  unhappy  in  her  liltle  heart. 

Willie  hade  them  good  night  at  t  he  house  door,  and  as 
usual  they  saw  no  more  of  him  for  a  week. 


CHAITKIl    VITI. 

A     Ni:\V    FKIF.  NT:. 


* 


Father."  said  Mr-.  Sullivan,  one  afternoon,  as  hf  wa?. 
preparing  '"  t;ike  n  number  nf  articles  which  he  wanted 
for  hi-  Sat  urdav's  work  ;  ,-'  church.  "why  do]  'i  vou  Lfet 

lit  i  !«•  (  ierl  v  to  gu  with  •  >  .  :•  •  !  ('.-in  \  some  o!'  vonr  thing.-? 
"\'oii  can't  take  them  ail  it.  once;  and  -shed  like  to  go,  .! 
know." 


THE  LAUPLKUITER.  47 

"She'd  only  be  in  the  way/'  said  Mr.  Cooper;  "I  can 
take  tneni  mysi;i.i.'v 

But  when  he  had  swung  a  lantern  and  an  empty  coal  hod 
on  one  arm,  taken  a  little  hatchet  and  a  basket  of  chips  in 
his  hand,  ami  hoisted  a  ?mall  ladder  over  his  shoulder,  ho 
was  fain  to  acknowledge  that  there  was  no  accommodation 
for  his  hammer  and  a  large  paper  of  nails.  Mrs.  Sullivan 
called  Gerty,  and  askvd  her  to  go  and  help  him  carry  his 
tools.  Gerty  was  /doused  with  the  proposal,  and  started 
oil  with  great  alau'i'iy, 

When  they  rei'obed  the  church  the  c!;l  sexton  took  them 
from  her  hands,  and  telling  her  she  could  play  about  until 
he  went  home,  out  to  be  sure  and  do  no  mischief,  he  went 
into  the  vestiy  *.o  commence  sweeping,  dusting,  and  build- 
ing fires,  Gerty  had  ample  amusement  for  some  time,  to 
wander  roi.nd  among  the  empty  aisles  and  pews,  and  ex- 
amine clcseH'  what,  hitherto,  siie  had  only  viewed  from  a, 
corner  Oi  the  gallery.  Then  she  ascended  the  pulpit,  and 
in  imagination  addressed  a  large  audience.  She  was  grow- 
ing weary  and  restless,  however,  when  the  organist,  who 
had  entered  unseen,  commenced  playing  some  low,  sweet 
nrasii;;  and  Gerty,  seating  herself  on  the  pulpit  stairs, 
listened  with  the  greatest  pleasure.  He  had  not  played 
long  before  the  door  o-pened  and  two  visitors  entered.  One 
was  an  elderly  man,  dressed  like  a  clergyman,  with  hair 
thin  and  grey,  and  features  rather  sharp;  but  remarkable 
for  his  benignant  expression  of  countenance.  A  voung 
lady,  apparently  about  twenty-live  years  of  age,  was  leaning 
on  his  arm.  She  was  attired  with  great  simplicity,  wear- 
ing a  dark  brown  clor.k,  and  a  bonnet  of  the  same  colour, 
relieved  by  some  light-blue  ribbon  about  the  face.  She 
<vas  somewhut  below  the  middle  size,  but  had  a  good  figure, 
Her  features  were  small  and  regular;  her  complexion  clear 
but  pale;  and  her  light  brown  hair  was.  neatlv  arranged. 
•She  never  lifted  her  eyes  as  she  walked  slowly  up  the  ai.de. 

The  two  approached  the  spot  where  Gerty  sat,  but  with- 
out perceiving  her.  '•  I  am  glad  you  like  the  organ,'"  said 
the  gentleman ;  "1  am  not,  much  of  a  judge  of  music,  but 
*,hey  say  it  is  a  superior  instrument,  and  that  Hermann 
plays  it  remarkably  well." 

"  \oris  my  opinion  ot  :mv  value,"  said  the  ladv;  "for  I 
have  little  knowledge  of  mu.sie.  much  as  I  love  it.  Hut 
that,  symphony  sounds  very  delightful  to  uie;  it  In  u  lung 


48  TllK  LAVri. 

lime  since  I  Lave  heard  such  touching  strains;  or.  it  mny 
In'  partlv  owing  to  liii'ir  st  riking  so  swcetlv  on  the  solemn 
quiet  of  the  church  this  afternoon.  I  love  to  go  into  a. 
large  church  on  a  week-day.  It  was  very  kind  of  yon  to 
call  for  me  t  his  afternoon.  1  low  came  yon  to  think  of  it  ?  " 

"  1  thought  you  would  enjoy  it.  my  dear.  I  knew  Her- 
mann would  be  playing  about  this  time;  and,  besides,  when 
]  saw  how  pale  you  were  looking  1  knew  the  walk  would 
:lo  you  good.'' 

"  It  has  done  me  good.  I  was  not  feeling  well,  and  tin; 
clear,  cold  air  was  just  what  I  needed;  1  knew  it  would 
refresh  me;  but  Mrs.  Ellis  was  busy,  and  1  could  not  go 
out  alone.''" 

"'  1  thought  T  should  find  the  sexton  here/'  said  the  gen- 
tleman. "I  want  to  .speak  to  him  about  the  light;  the, 
afternoons  are  so  short  now,  and  it  is  dark  so  early,  I  must 
ask  him  to  open  more  of  the  blinds,  or  J  cannot  see  to  read 
my  sermon  to-morrow.  He  mav  be  in  the  vestry-room;  he 
is  always  about  here  on  Saturday;  I  will  go  anil  look  for 
him.'" 

Just  then  Mr.  Cooper  entered  the  church,  and,  seeing 
the  clergyman,  came  up.  and  after  receiving  his  directions 
about  the  light,  requested  him  to  go  with  him  somewhere, 
for  the  gentleman  hesitated,  glanced  at,  the  young  ladv, 
and  then  said,"]  suppose  I  ought  to  go  to-dav;  am],  as 
you  say  you  are  at  leisure,  it  is  a  pity  1  should  not;  but  I 
don't  know- 
Then,  turning  to  the  lady,  he  said,  "  Kmily.  Mr.  Cooper 
wants  me  to  go  to  Mrs.  Class's  with  him:  and  I  shall  be 
absent  some  time.  Should  you  mind  waiting  here  until  .1 
return?  She  lives  in  the  next  street;  but  ]  may  be  de- 
tained, for  it's  about  the  library-books  being  so  mis- 
chievously defaced,  and  I  am  afraid  that  her  oldest  boy 
had  something  to  do  with  it.  It  ought  to  be  inquired  into 
before  to-morrow." 

"  (  Mi,  go,  bv  alJ  means,"  said  Kmily:  ''don't  mind  me; 
it  will  be  a  pleasure  to  .-it  here  and  listen  to  the  music. 
Mr.  Hermann's  plaving  is  a  great  treat  to  me,  and  I  don't 
care  how  lon^  1  wait  ;  so  do  not  hurrv  on  mv  account,  Mr. 
Arnold." 

Thus  assured,  Mr.  Arnold  led  the  lad  v  to  a  elni  r  beneai  h 
the  pulpit ,  and  wen!  wit  ii  M  r.  (  'ooper. 

All   this   time   Geity   had    been    unnoticed,  tui<3    had  re- 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  V9 

mained  very  quiet  on  the  upper  stair,  secured  from  sight 
by  the  pulpit.  Hardly  had  the  doors  closed,  however,  with 
a  loud  bang,  when  the  child  got  up,  and  began  to  descend 
the  stairs.  The  moment  slit;  moved,  the  ladv,  whose  seat 
was  very  near,  started,  and  exclaimed.  "  Who's  that?" 

Gertv  stood  still,  and  nui^o  no  reply.  Strange  the  lady 
did  not  look  up,  though  she  must  have  perceived  that  the 
movement  was  above  her  head.  There  was,  a  moment's 
pause,  and  then  Gerty  began  again  to  run  down  the  stairs. 
The  lady  sprang  up,  and,  stretching  out  her  hand,,  said 
:s  Who  is  it  ?  " 

"Me,"'  said  Gerty,  looking  up  in  the  lady's  face;  "it's 
only  me." 

"  Will  you  stop  and  speak  to  me  ?  "  said  the  lady. 

Gertv  not  only  stopped,  but  came  close  up  to  Emily's 
chair,  irresistibly  attracted  by  the  sweetest  voice  she  had 
ever  heard.  The  lady  placed  her  hand  on  Gerty 's  head, 
and  said,  "  Who  are  you  ?  " 

"  Gerty." 

"Gcrty  who?" 

"  Nothing  else  but  Gerty." 

"  Have  you  forgotten  your  other  narne?w 

"  I  haven't  got  any  other  name." 

"  How  came  you  here  ?  '' 

"I  came  with  Mr.  Cocpcr,  to  help  him  to  bring  his 
things." 

"  And  he's  left  you  here  to  wait  for  him,  and  I'm  left  too; 
so  we  must  take  care  of  each  other,  mustn't  we?" 

Gerty  laughed  at  this. 

"  Where  were  vou  : — On  the  stairs  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Suppose  y>-u  sit  down  on  this  step  by  my  chair,  and 
talk  with  me  a  little  while:  I  vant  to  see  if  we  can't  find 
cut  what  your  other  name  is.  Where  do  you  say  you  live  ?'"'" 

"'  With  Uncle  True." 

"True:" 

"Yes.  Mr.  True  "Flint  T  live  with  now.  Tie  took  me 
home  to  his  house  one  night,  when  .Nan  Grant  put  me  out 
on  the  side-walk." 

"  Why,  'e  you  that  little  girl  ?  Then  I've  heard  of  you 
before.  Mr.  Flint  told  me  all  about  you." 

"  Do  you  know  mv  Uncle  True.?'" 

"  Yes,  very  well." 


50  THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 

"  What's  your  name  ?  " 

"  My  name  is  Kiiiily  Graham." 

"(_)!  1  know/' said  Gerty,  springing  suddenly  up,  and 
clapping  her  hands  tog  tlier;  "I  know.  You  asked  him 
to  keep  me;  lie  said  so — I  Jtdird  him  say  so;  and  you  gave 
me  my  clothes;  and  you're  beautiful;  and  you're  good; 
and  I  love  you!  ()!  1  love  you  over  so  much!" 

As  Gerty  spoke  with  a  voice  full  of  excitement,  a 
strange  look  pas  ed  over  Miss  Graham's  face,  a  most  in-' 
quiring  and  restless  look,  as  if  the  tones  of  the  voice  had 
vibrated  on  a  chord  f  her  memory.  She  did  not  speak, 
but,  passing  her  arm  around  the  child's  waist,  drew  her 
closer  to  her.  As  tlie  peculiar  expression  passed  from  her 
face,  and  her  features  assumed  their  usual  calmness,  Gerty, 
as  she  gazed  at  her  with  a  look  of  wonder,  exclaimed, 
"Are  you  goinir  to  sleep  ?  '' 

"No.— Why?" 

"  Because  your  eyes  arc  shut." 

"  They  are  ;>lw;iys  shut,  my  child." 

"Always  shut!— What  for?" 

"  I  am  blind,  Gerty;   I  can  sen  nothing/' 

"Xot   see!"    said    Gerty;    '*  can't   you    see   anything? 
Jan't  you  see  me  now  ':" 

"  Xo,"  said  Miss  Graham. 

"  0!  "  exclaimed  Gertv,  drawing  a  long  breath,  "  l'in  xo 
glad." 

"dart!"  said  Miss  Graham,  in  the  saddest  voice  that 
ever  was  heard. 

''Oyes!'"  said  Gerty,  "so  glad  you  can't  see  me! — be- 
cause now,  perhaps,  you'll  love  inc.'' 

"And  shouldn't  1  love  you  if  I  saw  you  ?  "  said  Kmily, 
passing  her  hand  softly  and  slowly  over  the  child's  features. 

"Oh,  no!"  answered  (lerty.  "I'm  so  ugly  I'm  glad 
you  can't  see  how  uglv  I  am." 

"lint  just  think,  Gerty,"  said  EIIILY,  in  the.  same  sad 
voice,  "how  would  you  feel  if  you  could  not  sec  the  light, 
could  not  see  iinvtliiriLT  in  the  woild  ?  ' 

"  ( 'an't  voii  see  t1  '!  si;  n.  and  t  h  st; 
the  chureli  we're  in  ?  Are  \  (>u  in  i  he 

"In  t  lie  dark    all  l  he  1  ime—  day  ai:< 

Gert\  liurst  into  a  paroxvsm  of  t  ar> 
rhe.  as  soon  as  she  could  iind  voice  ..m 
bad!  it's  1,00  l)ad!'5 


THE  LAMPUmiTEH  51 


The  child's  grief  was  contagions;  and,  for  the  first  time 
for  years,  Eniilv  wept  bitterly  for  her  blindness. 

It  was  bat  for  ;i  few  moments,  however.  Quickly  recov- 
ering herself,  she  tried  to  compose  the  child  also,  saying, 
"Hush!  hush!  don't  cry:  and  don't,  say  it's  too  bad!  It's 
not  too  bad;  1  can  bear  it  very  well.  Fin  used  to  it,  and 
am  quite  happy.'' 

"I  shouldn't  be  happy  in  the  dark:  I  should  hate  tc 
be!"  said  Gerty.  "I  a  n't  glad  yoiv're  blind;  I'm  really 
sorry.  I  wish  you  could  see  me  ami  everything.  Can't 
your  eyes  be  opened,  any  way  ?" 

"No,"  said  Emily  "never;  but  we  won't  talk  about 
that  any  more;  wo  will  talk  about  you.  I  want  to  know 
what  makes  you  think  yourself  so  very  ugly.'' 

"Because  folks  savthat  1  am  an  ugly  child,  and  that, 
nobody  loves  ugly  children.'' 

"Yes,  people  do/'  said  Emily,  "love  ugly  children,  if 
ttiev  are  good." 

"But  I  an't  good,"  said  Gerty,  "  I'm  really  bad  !  " 

"But  you  can  be  yood,"  said  Emily,  "'  and  then  every- 
body will  love  you." 

"  Do  you  think  I  can  be  good  ?" 

"Yes,  if  you  try." 

"  I  will  try." 

"I  hope  you  will,"  said  Emily.  "Mr.  Flint  thinks  a 
great  deal  of  his  little  girl,  and  she  must  do  all  she  ca:i  to 
please  him." 

She  then  asked  concerning  Gerty's  former  way  of  life, 
and  became  so  interested  in  the  recital  of  the  little  girl's 
early  sorrows  and  trials,  that  she  was  unconscious  of  the 
flight  of  time,  and  quite  unobservant  of  the  departure  of 
the  organist,  who  had  ceased  playing,  closed  his  instrument, 
and  gone  away. 

Gerty  was  very  communicative.  The  sweet  voice  and 
sympathetic  tones  of  Emily  went  straight  to  her  heart,  and 
though  her  whole  life  had  been  passed  among  the  poorer 
and  lowest  classes  of  people,  she  felt  no  awe  and  constraint, 
on  her  encountering,  for  the  first  time,  a  lady  of  polished 
mind  and  manners.  On  the  contrary,  Gerry  clung  to 
Emily  as  affectionately,  ami  stroked  her  soft  boa  \\ith  as 
much  freedom,  as  if  she  had  herself  been  bom  in  a  palace. 
Once  or  twice  she  took  Emily's  nicely-gloved  hand  between 
both  her  own,  and  held  it  tight;  her  favourite  mode  of 


5  2  ?'///•;  L.  \  M  I  'L  ja  HTF. 


expressing  her  war-nth  •  f  <:  -alitnde  and  admiration.  The 
excitable  hut  interesting  child  look  no  less  strung  a  hold 
upon  Miss,  <  Jra  ham's  !V--i  1:1  •/-..  The  la!  NT  perceived  how 
neglected  the  lit;!e  oiio  had  been.  and  tin:  importance  of 
her  being  cducalod,  lest  r;j  H  v  :i  i.i  :.-.(',  art  iii^  upon  an  irnput- 
uon.s  disposition,  ilionld  p;-.  ivo  d:'.-tnictivo  to  a  nature 
capaMi!  of  t  ho  best  at  lainnicnts.  'j'iii1  !  \vo  \v<  -<'  st  ill  cntf-r- 
tainin^  each  otli.';-,  v.  \\c~\\  Mr.  ^\!,;<>!d  i.'ntoi'cd  ilic  church 
liastilv.  As  la;  (ii'ii'1  ii!)  the  ai.-lc,  ho  called  to  I'linilv, 
saying,  "  Emily  dc.ir,  1  fear  y<m  tliou^rhf  1  had  forgotten 
you.  J  havo  hi  en  Jonger  tluin  I  intended.  A\  ere  you  not 
tired  of  \vait  in^  '?'' 

"Ithou^lit  it  was  !iut  a  very  little  while.  1  have  hnd 
company,  yon  pee." 

"What,  little  I'.tik^'*  said,  .Mr.  Arnold,  good-naturedly. 
"  Wlicro  did  this  little  body  como  from  ?" 

"  She  came  to  t  he  church  this  afternoon  Avilh  Mr.  Cooper. 
Isn't  he  here  for  her  ?" 

"  Cooper  ?  —  No:  he  went  straight  Jio?ne  after  ho  left,  moj 
he's  prohahlv  forgotten  all  about  the  child.  What's  to  bo 
done?" 

"  Can't  we  take  her  home  ?     J.s  it  far?" 

*'  It  is  t\vo  or  tlnee  ?treet>  from  here,  and  directly  out  of 
our  way;  altogether  too  far  for  you  to  walk." 

"  Oh,  no,  it  woti  t  tiro  me:  J'm  ipiite  strong  now,  and  I 
would  know  she  was  safe  home." 

If  I'lmily  could  but  ha\e  seen  (lerty's  p-rateful  face  that 
moment,  she  would  indued  have  felt  repaid  for  almost  any 
amount  of  veariiiess. 


C1IAPTKK  IX, 


THE   blind    girl    did    uoi    forget    little    Certy.      Emily 
CiraLam   never  for  '/or  i  h  '    -til  -,  the  wants,  the  iieces- 

sir  ii-s  of  ot  her-'.      She  ee  \\\c  \vorld  wit  hoiit  .  but 

there  was  a  woi'ld  ujiathy  v-itiiin  her,  which 

manifested   its.lf  in  :•,:•,;  ••,.-..    charily,   both   of  Jieart   and 
deed.     iSho   loved    (Jod    v.  i:ii    her    \\holu   heart,   and   he? 


THE  LAMPl.iailTKi;.  53 


neighbour  as  herself.  Her  own  great  misfortunes  and 
trials  were  borne  without  repining;  but  the  misfortunes 
and  trials  of  others  became  her  care,  the  alleviation  of 
them  her  greatest  delight.  Emily  was  never  weary  of 
doing  good.  l>ut  never  had  she  been  so  aitected  as  now 
by  any  tale  of  sorrow  Children  \vere  horn  into  the  world 
amid  poverty  and  privation.  She  could  not  account  to 
herself  for  the  interest  she  felt  in  the  little  stranger;  but 
the  impulse  to  know  more  of  her  was  irresistible,  and  send- 
inii  for  True,  she  talked  a  long  time  with  him  about  the 
child. 

True  was  highly  gratified  by  Miss  Graham's  account  of 
the  meeting  in  the  church,  and  of  the  interest  the  little 
girl  had  inspired  in  one  for  whom  he  felt  the  greatest 
admiration  and  respect,  Certy  had  previously  told  him 
how  she  had  seen  Miss  (uaham.  and  had  spoken  in  the 
most  glowing  terms  of  the  dear  lady  who  was  so  kind  to 
her,  and  brought  her  home  when  Mr.  Cooper  had  forgotten 
her,  but  it  had  not  occurred  to  the  old  man  that  the  fancy 
was  mutual. 

Emily  asked  him  if  he  didn't  intend  to  send  her  to 
school  ? 

'•'  Well,  I  don't  know/''  said  he;  if  she's  a  little  thing,  and 
an't  much  used  to  being  with  other  children.  Besides,  I 
(Jo  n't  exactly  like  to  spare  her.'' 

Emily  suggested  that  it  was  time  she  was  learning  to 
read  and  write;  and  that  the  sooner  she  went  among  other 
children,  the  easier  it  would  be  to  her. 

'-'  Very  true,  Miss  Emily,  very  true,"  said  Mr.  Flint.  "  I 
dare  say  you're  right;  and  if  you  think  she'd  better  go,  I'll 
ask  her,  and  see  what  she  says." 

"I  would,"  said  Emily.  "I  think  she  might  enjoy  it, 
besides  improving  very  much;  and,  about  her  clothes,  if 
there's  any  deficiency,  I'll  — 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  Miss  Emily!'''  interrupted  'True;  ''there's 
no  necessity;  she's  very  well  on't  now,  thanks  to  your 
kindness  " 

"  Well."  said  Emily,  "if  she  should  have  any  wants,  you 
must  apply  .  o  me.  You  kno'-  we  adopted  her  jointly,  and 
1  agreed  to  do  anything  I  coaid  for  IK  i  :  so  von  must  never 
hesitate  —  it  will  be  a  pleasure  to  serve  either  of  you.  My 
father  always  feels  und  r  obligations  to  you,  Mr.  Flint,  for 
luiihfui  service  that  cost  you  dear  in  the  end.''' 


54  THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Emily,"  said  True.  "  Mr.  Graham  has  always 
been  niy  best  friend;  and  as  to  that  'ere  accident  that 
happened  when  I  was  in  his  employ,  it  uas  nobody's  fault 
out  my  own;  it  wa.s  mv  own  carelessness,  and  nobody's 
else." 

"  1  know  you  say  .so,"  said  Kinily,  "  but  we  regretted  it* 
very  much;  and  you  must  n't  former  what  I  tell  you,  that 
1  shall  delight  in  doing  anything  for  Gerty.  1  should 
like  to  have  her  come  and  see  me,  some  day,  if  she  would 
like,  and  you'll  let  her." 

•'  Sartain,  sartain,"  said  True,  "  and  thank  you  kindly; 
she'd  be  glad  to  come." 

A  few  days  after  Gerty  went  with  True  to  see  Miss 
Graham,  but  the  housekeeper,  whom  they  met  in  the  hall, 
told  them  that  she  was  ill  and  could  see  no  one.  So  they 
went  away  full  of  disappointment  and  regret. 

Emily  had  taken  a  severe  cold  the  day  she  sat  so  long  in 
the  church,  and  was  su (let ing  with  it  when  they  called; 
but,  though  confined  to  her  room,  she  would  have  been 
glad  to  have  a  visit  from  (Jerty,  and  was  sorry  that  Mrs. 
Ellis  should  have  sent  them  away. 

On  Saturday  evening,  when  Willie  was  present,  True 
broached  the  subject  of  (Jertv's  going  to  school.  (Jerty 
was  much  displeased  with  the  idea;  but  it  met  with 
Willie's  approbation;  and  when  (Jerty  learned  that  Miss 
Graham  also  wished  it,  she  consented,  though  reluctantly, 
to  begin  the  next  week,  and  try  how  she  liked  it.  So 
next  Monday  (Jerty  went  with  True  to  one  of  the  primary 
schools,  was  admitted,  and  her  education  began.  AVheu 
AVillie  come  home  the  next  Sunday,  he  rushed  into  True's 
room,  eager  to  hear  how  (Jerty  liked  going  to  school.  She 
was  seated  at  the  table,  with  her  rpelling-book ;  and  she 
.exclaimed,  "  Oh,  Willie!  Willie!  come  and  hear  me  read!  " 

Her  performance  could  hardly  be  ('ailed  reading.  She 
had  not  got  beyond  the  alphabet,  ami  a  few  syllables  she 
had  l"arned  to  spell;  but  Willie  bestowed  upon  her  much 
well-merited  praise,  she  had  been  very  diligent.  He  was 
astonished  to  hear  that  (Jerty  liked  going  to  school,  liked 
the  teachers  and  the  scholars,  and  had  a  fine  time  at  re- 
cess. He  had  fully  expected  that  she  would  dislike  the 
whole  business,  and  go  into  tan;  rums  about  it  which  was 
the  expression  he  u.-ed  to  denote  her  tits  of  ill-temper. 
\V;llie  promised  to  assist  her  in  her  studied;  and  the  two 


THK  LAMPLIGHTER.  55 

children's  literary  plans  soon  became  as  high-flown  as  if 
OIK;  had  been  a  poet-laureate  and  the  other  a  philosopher. 

Yoi  two  or  three  weeks  all  appeared  to  go  on  smoothly. 
Oerty  went  regularly  to  school,  and  made  rapid  progress. 
Every  Saturday  Willie  heard  her  read  and  spell,  assisted, 
praised,  and  encouraged  her.  Hut  he  had  heard  that,  on 
two  occasions,  she  had  nearly  had  a  brush  with  some  large 
girls,  for  whom  she  began  to  show  symptoms  of  dislike. 
This  soon  reached  a  crisis.  One  day,  when  the  children 
were  in  the  school-yard,  during  recess,  Oerty  saw  True  in 
his  working-dress,  passing  down  the  street,  with  his  ladder 
and  lamp-tiller.  Shouting  and  laughing,  she  pursued  and 
overtook  him.  She  came  back  in  a  few  minutes,  seeming 
much  delighted,  and  ran  into  the  yard  full  of  happy 
excitement.  The  troop  of  large  girls,  whom  Gerty  had 
already  had  some  reason  to  distrust,  had  been  observing 
her,  and  one  of  them  called  out  saying — 

"  Who's  that  man  ?  '' 

'''That's  my  Uncle  True,"  said  Gerty. 

"Your  what?" 

"  My  Uncle,  Mr.  Flint,  that  I  live  with." 

"  So  you  belong  to  him,  do  you?"  said  the  girl,  in  an 
insolent  tone  of  voice.  "  Ha!  ha!  ha!" 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at  ?"  said  Gerty,  fiercely. 

"Ugh!  Before  Pd  live  with  him!"  said  the  girl— 
"Old  Smutty!" 

The  others  caught  it  up,  and  the  laugh  and  epithet  Old 
Smutty  circulated  freely  in  the  corner  of  the  yard  where 
Gerty  was  standing.  Gerty  was  furious.  Her  eyes  glis- 
tened, she  doubled  her  little  fist,  and,  without  hesitation, 
came  down  in  battle  upon  the  crowd.  But  they  were  too 
many  for  her,  and,  helpless  as  she  was  with  passion,  they 
drove  her  out  of  the  yard.  She  started  for  home  on  a  full 
lun,  screaming  with  all  her  might. 

As  she  flew  along  the  side-walk,  she  brushed  stiffly 
against  a  tall,  stiff-looking  lady,  who  was  walking  slowly 
in  the  same  direction,  with  a  much  smaller  person  leaning 
on  her  arm.  "Bless  me!"  said  the  tall  lady,  who  had 
almost  lost  her  equilibrium  from  the  suddenness  of  the 
shock.  "Why,  you  horrid  little  creature!"  As  she 
spoke,  she  grasped  Gerty  by  the  shoulder,  and.  before  she 
could  break  away,  gave  her  a  slight  shake.  This  served 
to  increase  Gerty 's  auger*  andv  li^r  speed  gaining  in  pro- 


50  THE  LAVrLIGlTTKR. 

portion,  it  was  Imt  a  few  iniiiuu\s  before  slit-  was  crouched 
111  H  corner  of  True's  room  behind  the  lied,  her  face  to  the 
wall,  and  covered  with  both  her  hands.  Here  she  was  free 
to  c'i'v  as  haul  as  she  pleased:  for  Mrs.  Sullivan  was  gone 
out,  and  there  was  no  one  in  the  house  to  hear  her. 

J)iit  she  had  not  indulged  long  in  her  tantrum  when 
the  gate  at  the  end  of  thevard  closed  with  a  bung,  and 
footsteps  were  heard  coining  towards  Mr.  .Flint's  door, 
lierty's  attention  was  arrested,  for  she  knew  by  the  sound 
that  a  stranger  was  approaching.  With  a  strong  effort 
she  controlled  herself  so  as  to  keep  quiet.  There  was  a 
knock  at  the  door,  but  (ierty  did  not  reply  to  it,  remain- 
ing concealed  behind  the  bed.  The  knock  was  not  re- 
peated, but  the  stranger  lifted  the  latch  and  walked  in. 

*'  There  doesn't  seem  to  be  any  one  at  home,"  said  a 
female  voice,  "'  what  a  pity  " 

"  Jsn't  there  :  I'm  son_  ,"  replied  another,  in  the  sweet 
music.-ii  tones  of  Miss  (jraham.  (ierty  knew  the  voice  at 
once. 

"I  thought  you'd  better  not  come  here  yourself,"  re- 
joined the  first  speaker,  who  was  no  other  than  Mrs. 
Ellis,  the  identical  lady  whom  (ierty  had  so  frightened 
and  disconcerted. 

"Oh,  I  don't  regret  coming,"  said  Emily.  "You  can 
leave  me  here  while;  you  go  to  your  sister's,  and  very 
likely  Mr.  Flint  or  the  little  girl  will  come  home  in  the 
meant  ime." 

"  It  don't  become  you.  Miss  Emily,  to  be  carried  round 
overvwhere,  and  left,  like  an  express  parcel,  till  called  for. 
You  caught  a  horrid  cold  thai  vou're  hardlv  well  of  now, 
waiting  there  in  the  church  for  the  minister;  and  Mr 
(Iraliam  will  be  finding  fault  next.'' 

"Oh,  no.  Mrs.  Ellis;  it's  very  comfortable  here;  tin 
church  inu-t,  have  been  damp,  I  think.  Come,  put  me  in 
Mr.  Flint's,  arm-chair,  and  J  can  make,  myself  quite 
Content  ed.'' 

"  Well,  at  any  rat","  said  Mrs  Ellis,  "I'll  make  up  a 
good  fire  in  this  stove  before  1  go." 

As  she.  spoke,  the  energetic  housekeeper  seized  the 
poker,  and.  after  stirring  up  the  coals,  ami  making  free 
with  all  True's  kindlewood.  waiied  till  the  fire  burnt  up, 
and  then.  ha\ing  laid  aside  Finilv's  cloak,  went  away  with 
the  same  iirm  step  with  \\lncii  she  had  come,  and  which 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  57 

had  so  overpowered  Emily's  noiseless  tread,  that  Gerty 
had  only  anticipated  the  arrival  of  a  single  guest.  As 
Boon  as  (Jerty  knew  that  Mrs.  Ellis  had  really  departed, 
she  suspended  her  etTorts  at  self-control,  and,  with  a  deep- 
drawn  sigh,  gasped  out,  "0  dear!  0  dear!'"' 

"  Why,  Gerty!  "  exclaimed  Emily,  "  is  that  you  ?" 

"  Yes,"  sobbed  Gerty. 

"  Come  here." 

The  child  waited  no  second  bidding,  but.  starting  up, 
ran,  threw  herself  on  the  iloor  by  the  side  of  Emily,  buried 
her  face  in  the  blind  girl's  lap,  and  once  more  commenced 
crying  aloud.  Her  whole  frame  was  agitated. 

"'  Why,  Gerty,"  said  Emily.  "  what  is  the  matter?" 

But  Gerty  could  not  reply;  and  Emily  desisted  from 
her  inquiries  until  the  little  one  should  be  somewhat  com- 
posed. She  lifted  Gerty  up  into  her  lap,  laid  her  head 
upon  her  shoulder,  and  with  her  handkerchief  wiped  the 
tears  from  her  face.  Her  soothing  words  and  caresses 
soon  quieted  the  child,  and  when  she  was  calm,  Emily, 
instead  of  recurring  at  once  to  the  cause  of  her  grief, 
questioned  her  upon  other  topics.  At  last,  however,  she 
asked  her  if  she  went  to  school. 

"'  I  hare  been,''  said  Gerty,  raising  her  head  from 
Emily's  shoulder;  "  but  I  won't  ever  go  again!  " 

"What!— Why  not!" 

''Because,"  said  Gerty,  angrily,  "I  hate  those  girls;  yes, 
I  hate  'em!  ugly  things!" 

"  Gerty,"  said  Emily,  "  don't  say  that;  you  shouldn't 
hate  anybody." 

"  Why  shouldn't  I  ?"  said  Gerty. 

"Because  it's  wrong." 

"  Xo,  it's  not  wrung'  T  say  it  ?.««'£/"  said  Gerty; 
''and  1  do  hate  'em;  and  I  hate  Xan  Grant,  and  I  always 
shall!  Don't  >/ou  hate  anybody?" 

"  Xo,"  answered  Emily,""'  I  don't." 

"  Did  anybody  ever  drown  your  kitten?  Did  anybody 
ever  call  your  father  Old  .Smutty?"  said  Gerty.  "  Jf 
they  had,  1  know  you'd  hate  'em  just  as  I  do." 

"(.Jerty/"  said  Emily,  solemnly,  "didn't  yon  tell  me,  the 
other  day,  that  you  were  a  naughty  child,  but  that  you 
wished  to  be  good,  and  would,  try!" 

"'  Yes,"  said  Gerty. 


58  THE  LAVPT.TUIITRn. 

"  If  yon  wish  to  become  good  and  lie  forgiven,  you  must 
forgive  others."  (ierty  said  nothing. 

"  Do  you  not,  wish  (Jod  to  forgive  and  love  you  ?  " 

"God,  who  lives  in  heaven — who  made  the  stars?"  said 
Gerty. 

"  Yes." 

"  \\"\\\  he  love  me,  and  let  me  some  time  go  to  heaven  ?  " 

"Yes,  if  you  try  to  be  good  and  love  everybody." 

"Miss  Emily,"  said  (ierty,  after  a  moment's  pause,"! 
can't  do  it,  so  I  s'pose  I  can't  go." 

Just  at  this  moment  a  tear  fell  upon  Oerty's  forehead. 
She  looked  thoughtfully  up  into  Emily's  face,  then  said — 

"  Dear  Miss  Emily,  are  you  going  there?  " 

"  1  am  trying." 

"  I  should  like  to  go  with  you,"  said  Oerty. 

Still  Emily  did  not  speak.  She  left  the  child  to  tlift 
working  of  her  own  thoughts. 

"  Miss  Emily,"  said  (ierty,  at  last,  in  the  lowest  whisper, 
"  I  mean  to  try,  but  I  don't  think  1  can." 

"(Jod  bless  you.  and  help  you,  my  child!  "said  Emily, 
laying  her  hand  upon  (ierty's  head. 

For  fifteen  minutes  or  more  not  a  word  was  spoken  by 
either,  (ierty  lay  perfectly  still  in  Emily's  lap.  By-and- 
by  the  latter  perceived,  by  the  child's  breathing,  that,  worn 
out  with  the  fever  and  excitement  of  all  she  had  gone 
through,  she  had  dropped  into  a  quiet  sleep.  When  Mrs. 
Ellis  returned,  Emily  pointed  to  the  sleeping  child,  and 
asked  her  to  place  her  on  the  bed.  She  did  so,  and  turning 
to  Emily,  exclaimed,  "  My  word,  Miss  Emily,  that's  the 
same  rude,  bawling  little  creature  that  came  so  near  being 
the  death  of  us!"  Emily  smiled  at  the  idea  of  a  child 
eight  years  old  overthrowing  a  woman  of  Mrs.  Ellis'  inches, 
put  said  ncthing. 

Why  did  Emily  weep  long  that  night,  as  she  recalled  the 
scene  of  the  morning?  Why  did  she,  on  bended  knees, 
wrestle  so  vehemently  with  a  mighty  sorrow?  \\hydid 
she  pray  so  earnestlv  for  new  strength  and  hcavenlv  aid? 
Why  did  she  so  beseechingly  ask  of  (lod  His  blessing  on 
the  little  child  ?  Because  she  had  felt,  in  many  a  year  of 
darkness  and  bereavement,  in  many  an  hour  of  fearful 
struggle,  in  manv  a  panur  of  despair,  how  a  temper  like 
that  of  (Icrtv's  might,  in  one  moment  of  its  fearful  reign, 
eaat  u  blight  upon  a  lif^'ime.  and  \\rite  in  fearful  iine.6  the 


THE  LAMPI.WHTER.  59 

mournful  requiem  of  early  joy.  And  so  she  prayed  to 
heaven  for  strength  to  keep  her  firm  resolve,  and  aid  in 
fulfilling  In-r  undying  purpose,  to  cure  that  child  of  her 
dark  infirmity. 


CHAPTER  X. 

AX    EARTHLY    MESSENGER   OF    PEACE. 

THE  next  Sabbath  afternoon  found  Gerty  seated  oiv  a 
stool  in  Emily's  room.  Her  large  eyes  were  fixed  on 
Emily's  face,  \vhich  always  seemed  to  fascinate  the  little 
girl;  so  attentively  did  she  watch  her  features,  tne  charm 
of  which  manv  an  older  person  than  (ierty  had  felt,  but 
could  not  describe.  It  was  not  beauty:  though  once  her 
face  was  illumined  by  beautiful  hazel  eyes:  nor  was  it 
fascination  of  manner,  for  Emily's  manner  and  voice  were 
so  soft  and  unassuming  that  they  never  took  the  fancy  bv 
storm,  it  was  not  compassion  for  her  blindness,  though 
that  might  well  excite  sympathy.  But  it  was  hard  to  real- 
ise that  Emily  was  blind.  It  was  a  fact  never  forced  upon 
her  friend's  recollection  by  any  repining  or  selfish  indul- 
gence on  the  part  of  the  sufferer;  and,  as  there  was  nothing 
painful  in  the  appearance  of  her  closed  lids,  shaded  and 
fringed  as  they  were  by  her  long  eyelashes,  it  was  not  un- 
usual for  persons  to  converse  upon  things  which  could  only 
be  evident  to  the  sense  of  sight,  and  even  direct  her  atten- 
tion to  one  object  and  another,  quite  forgetting,  for  the 
moment,  her  sad  deprivation  :  and  Kmilv  never  sighed,  never 
seemed  hurt  at  their  want  of  consideration,  or  showed  any 
lack  of  interest  in  objects  thus  shut  from  her  gaze,  but 
quire  satisfied  with  the  pictures  which  she  formed  in  her 
imagination,  would  talk  pleasantly  upon  whatever  was 
uppermost  in  the  minds  of  her  companions.  Some  said 
that  Emily  had  the  sweetest  mouth  in  the  world,  and  they 
loved  to  watch  its  ever  varying  expression.  But  true 
Christians  knew  the  source  whence  she  derived  that  power 
by  which  her  face  and  voice  stole  into  the  hearts  of  young 
and  old,  and  won  their  lava—they  would  have  said  the 
the  same  as  Uerty  did,  when  she  sat  gazing  so  earnestly  at 


60  THE  I.AMPLTdllTETl. 

Emily  on  the  very  Sunday  afternoon  of  which  we  speak, 
'•  Miss  F.mily,  I  know  you've  l)een  with  (Jod." 

(Jerty  was  a  strange  child;  but  she  had  felt  Emily's  su- 
periority to  any  being  she  had  ever  seen;  and  r-he  reposed 
confidence  in  what  she  told  her,  allowed  herself  to  he 
guided  hy  one  whom  she  felt  loved  her  and  sought  her 
good;  and,  as  she  sat  at  her  feet,  and  listened  to  her  gentle 
voice  while  she  gave  her  first  lesson  upon  the  distinction 
between  right  and  wrong,  Emily,  though  she  could  not  see 
the  little  thoughtful  face.  knew,  by  her  earnest  attention, 
and  by  the  little  hand  which  had  sought  hers,  and  held  it 
tight,  that  one  great  point  was  won. 

(ierty  had  not  been  to  school  since  the  day  of  her  haUle 
with  the  girls.  True's  persuasions  had  failed;  she  would 
not  go.  But  Emily  understood  the  child's  nature  better 
than  True  did,  and  urged  upon  her  more  forcible  motives 
than  the  old  man  had  thought  of  employing,  that  x/tc  suc- 
ceeded where  he  had  failed,  derty  considered  that  her  old 
friend  had  been  insulted,  and  that;  was  the  chief  cause  of 
her  indignation  with  her  schoolmates;  hut  Emily  placed 
the  matter  in  a  different  light,  and  convincing  her  at  last 
that,  if  she  loved  I'ncle,  True,  she  would  show  it  much 
better  by  obeying  his  wishes  than  by  retaining  her  foolish 
anger,  she  finally  obtained  (lerty's  promise  that  she  would 
go  to  school  the  next  morning. 

The  next  morning  True,  much  pleased,  went  with  her, 
and  inquiring  for  the  teacher,  staled  the  case  to  her  in  his 
blunt,  honest  wav.  and  then  left  (iertv  in  her  special 
charge.  Mi-s  Browne,  who  was  a  young  woman  of  good 
sense  and  good  fe 'lings,  saw  the  matter  in  the  right  light; 
and  taking  an  opportunity  to  speak  privately  to  thegHs, 
who  had  excited  (iertv's  temper  bv  their  rudeness,  made 
them  so  ashamed  of  their  conduct,  that  thev  ceased  to 
molest  t  he  child. 

The  winter  passed  away,  and  spring  days  came,  when 
(iertv  could  sit  at  the  open  window,  when  birds  sang  in  the 
morning  among  the  trees,  and  the  HIM  ai  evening  threw 
bright  ravs  across  Tr.ie's  great  room,  and  <  iertv  could  see 
to  read  almost  until  bedtime.  She  had  been  to  school 
steadilv  all  winter,  and  had  impro\ed  rapidlv.  Sne  was1 
healtliv  and  well;  her  clothes  were  clean  and  neat,  for  hei 
wardrobe  was  well  stocked  b\  Fmilv,  and  the  care  of  it 
superintended  by  Mrs..  Sullivan.  She  was  bright  auu 


T17K  LAlfPLHUITKR.  f>l 

happy  too,  and  tripped  round  ilio  house  so  joyously,  that 
True  declared  his  birdie  knew  not  what  it  was  to  touch  her 
heel  to  the  ground,  but  Hew  about  on  the  tips  of  her  toes. 

The  old  man  could  no!  have  loved  her  better  had  she 
been  his  own  child;  and  he  sat.  by  her  side  on  the  wide 
settle,  which,  in  warm  weaiher,  was  moved  outside  the  door, 
and  listened  patiently  and  attentively  while  she  read 
various  pleasing  stories.  The  old  man's  interest  in  the 
story-books  was  as  keen  as  if  he  had  been  a  child  himself. 

Emily, who  gave  these  books,  knew  their  influence  on  the 
hearts  of  children,  and  most  judiciously  did  she  select 
them.  Gerty's  life  was  now  as  happy  as  it  had  been 
wretched  and  miserable.  All  the  days  in  the  week  were 
joyous;  hut  Saturday  and  Sunday  were  marked  clays;  for 
Saturday  brought  Willie  homo  to  hear  her  recite  her  les- 
sons, walk,  laugh,  and  play  with  her.  He  had  so  many 
pleasant  tilings  to  tell,  was  so  full  of  life,  so  ready  to  enter 
into  all  her  plans,  and  promote  her  amusement,  that  on 
Monday  morning  she  began  to  count  the  days  until  Satur- 
day would  come  again. 

Sunday  afternoon  Gerty  always  spent  with  Emily,  lis- 
tening to  her  sweet  voice,  and  imbibing  a  portion  of  her 
sweet  spirit.  Emily  preached  no  sermons,  nor  did  she 
weary  the  child  with  precepts.  It  did  not  occur  to  Gertv 
that  she  went  there  to  be  tiinylit  anything;  but  gradually 
the  blind  girl  imparted  light  to  the  child's  dark  soul,  and 
the  lessons  that  are  divine  were  implanted  in  her  so 
naturally,  that  she  realized  not  the  work  that  was  going 
on,  but  long  after — when  goodness  had  grown  strong  within 
her,  and  her  first  feeble  resistance  of  evil,  her  first  attempts 
to  keep  her  childish  resolves,  had  matured  into  deeply- 
rooted  principles — she  felt,  as  she  looked  back,  that  on 
those  blessed  Sabbaths,  sitting  at  Emily's  knee,  she  had 
received  into  her  heart  the  first  beams  of  that  immortal 
light  that  never  could  be  quenched. 

It  was  a  grievous  trial  to  Gerty  to  learn  that  the  Graham's 
were  about  to  go  into  the  country  for  the  summer.  Mr. 
Graham  had  a  pleasant  residence  about  six  miles  from 
Boston,  to  which  be  resort<-d  as  soon  as  the  planting  season 
commenced;  for  thuu^h  devoted  to  business  during  the 
winter,  he  had  of  late  years  allowed  himself  much  relaxa- 
Mon  during  the  summer;  and  ledgers  and  day-books  were 
'iO  be  supplanted  by  the  delights  oi'  j£m.'dvJxu>if.  JiMiIij 


fi-2  THE  L.\  MT  LIGHTER. 

promised  Gerty  that  she  should  puss  a  day  with  her  when 
the  weather  was  tine;  a  visit  whirh  Gerty  enjoyed  three 
months  it)  anticipation,  and  more  than  three  in  retrospec- 
tion. 

It  was  some  compensation  for  Emily's  ahsence  that,  as 
the  days  got  long.  Willie  was  often  able  to  leave  the  shop 
and  come  home  for  an  hour  or  two  in  the  evening;  and 
Willie's  visits  always  tended  to  comfort  Gerty. 


CHAPTER   XI. 

PRO<;iJI-:SS   OF    K\OYVU:i)GE. 

TT  was  one  pleasant  evening  in  April  that  Gerty.  who 
had  been  to  see  Miss  Graham  and  bid  her  good-bye,  before 
her  departure  for  the  country,  stood  at  the  back  part  of  the 
yard,  weeping  bitterly.  She  held  in  her  ha.nd  a  book  and 
a  new  slate.  Emily's  parting  gifts;  but  she  had  not  removed 
the  wrapper  from  the  one.  and  the  other  was  bedewed  with 
tears.  She  was  so  full  of  grief  that  she  did  not  hear  any 
one  approach,  until  a  hand  was  placed  upon  each  of  her 
shoulders:  and.  as  she  turned  round,  she  found  herself 
encircled  by  \\  illie's  arms,  and  face  to  face  with  Willie's 
sunny  countenance.  "  Why.  Gerty  I  "  said  he,  "this  is  no 
welcome,  when  I've  come  home  on  a  week-night  to  stay 
with  von  all  the  evening.  Mother  and  grandfather  are 
gone  out,  and  when  I  come  to  look  for  von,  von're  crying 
so  I  can't  see  your  face  fnr  tears.  Come,  come!  dn  leave 
off:  yon  don't  know  how  y<>u  look  !" 

"Willie!"  sobbed  she,  "do  you  know  Miss  Emily's 
gone  ?  '' 

"  ( lone  where  ?  " 

''  Wav  oil',  siv  mile?,  to  stav  all  summer!  " 

But  Willie  only  laughed.  '"  Six  miles  !  "  said  he;  "that'll 
a  terri  ble  \\  a  v.  certai  nl  \  ! 

"  But    1  can't  see  her  an  v  more!  "  said    Gert  v. 

"  Von  can  see  her  next   winter."  reoined  Willie. 

''(ih.  but   that's  so  1  < ' : '  L1  !  "  s  a/ 

''  What  makes  you  think  s 


THE  LAMPLICIITER.  65 

"She  thinks  much  of  me;  she  can't  sec  me,  and  she 
likes  me  bettor  than  anybody,  but  Uncle  True." 

"  I  don't  believe  it;  1  don't  believe  she  likes  you  half  as 
well  as  I  do.  I  know  she  don't!  How  can  she,  when  she's 
blind,  and  never  saw  you  in  her  life,  and  I  see  you  all  the 
time,  and  love  you  better  than  I  do  anybody  in  the  world, 
except  mv  mother." 

"Do  you  really,  Willie?" 

"  Yes.  1  do.  I  always  think,  when  I  come  home — Xov  ( 
I'm  going  to  see  Gerty  ;  and  everything  that  happens  ali 
the  week,  I  think  to  myself — I  shall  tell  Gerty  that." 

"I  shouldn't  think  you'd  like  me  so  well." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"Oh,  because  you're  so  handsome,  and  I  an't  handsome 
a  bit.  I  hoard  Ellen  Chase  toll  Euoretia  Davis,  the  other 
day,  that  she  thought.  Gerty  Flint  was  the  worst-looking 
girl  in  the  school." 

"  Then  she  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  herself,"  ?ar!d  Willie, 
"  I  guess  she  an't  very  good-looking,  i  should  hate  the 
looks  of  her  or  any  other  girl  that  said  that.1' 

"  Oh,  Willie!  "  exclaimed  Gerty,  "  it's  true." 

"  Xo,  it  an't  tree,"  said  Willie.  "  To  be  sure,  yon 
haven't  got  long  curls,  and  a  round  face,  and  blue  eyes,  like 
Belle  Clinton's,  and  nobody' d  think  of  sotting  you  up  for 
a  beauty;  but  when  you've  been  running,  and  have  rosy 
cheeks,  and  your  great  black  eyes  shine,  and  you  laugh  so 
heartily,  I  often  think  you're  the  brightest-looking  girl  1 
ever  saw  in  my  life:  and  I  don't  care  what  other  folks 
think, as  long  as  1  like  your  looks.  1  feel  just  as  bad  when 
you  cry,  or  anything's  the  matter  with  you,  as  if  it  were 
myself,  and  worse." 

Such  professions  of  affection  by  Willie  were  frequent, 
and  always  responded  to  by  a  like  declaration  from  Gerty. 
Is'or  were  they  mere  professions.  The  two  children  loved 
each  other  dearly.  That  they  loved  each  <>l/trr  there  could 
be  no  doubt;  and  if  in  the  spring  the  bond  between  them 
was  already  strong,  autumn  found  it  cemented  by  still 
firmer  ties;  for,  during  Kmiiv's  absence,  Uillie  iilled  her 
place,  and  iiis  own  too:  and  though  Gertv  did  not  forget 
her  blind  friend,  she  parsed  a  most  happv  summer,  and 
made  such  p/ogress  in  hrr  .-indies  at  school  that,  when 
Emily  returned  in  October,  she  could  hardly  understand 
Jaow  so  much  had  been  accomplished  iu  so  short  a  time, 


f>}  77//v   LAMri. 

Miss  Graham's  kindly  feeling  towards  her  little  profc<)e 
liad  increased  liy  time  and  absence,  ami  (lertv's  visits  to 
Kmily  l>ec;une  more  frequent  than  ever.  The  profit  do- 
rived  from  these  visits  was  not.  ;dl  on  (iertv's  part. 
Kniily  had,  during  the  previous  winter,  lieard  her  read 
occasionally,  that  she  might  judge  of  her  proficiency;  mw 
she  had  discovered  that  the  little  girl  had  attained  to  a 
much  greater  degree  of  excellence.  She  read  understand- 
ingly,  and  her  accent,  and  intonations  \vere  so  admirable 
that  Kniily  found  rare  pleasure  in  listening  to  her. 

.For  the  child's  benefit, and  for  her  own  gratification, she 
proposed  that  (Jertv  should  come  every  dav  and  read  to 
her  for  an  hour,  (ierty  was  only  too  liappv  to  oblige  her 
dear  Miss,  Kniily,  who,  in  making  the  proposal, represented 
it  as  a  personal  favour  to  herself,  and  a  plan  by  which 
(Jerty's  eyes  could  serve  for  them  both.  It  Mas  agreed  that 
when  True  started  on  his  larnplighting  expeditions  he 
should  take  flerty  to  Mr.  Graham's, and  call  for  her  on  big 
return.  Thus  (ierty  was  punctual  in  her  attendance  at 
the  appointed  time:  and  none  but  those  who  have  tried  it 
are  aware  what  a  large  amount  of  reading  may  be  effected 
in  six  months,  if  an  hour  is  devoted  to  it  each  dav.  Kmily, 
in  her  choice  of  books,  did  not  confine  herself  to  such  as 
came  strictly  within  a  child's  comprehension.  She  judged 
that  a  girl  of  such  keen  intelligence  as  Gorty  was  naturally 
endowed  with,  would  be  benefited  by  what  was  beyond  her 
comprehension;  but  that,  in  the  effort  she  would  be  called 
upon  to  make,  would  enlarge  her  capacity,  and  be  an  in- 
centive to  her  genius.  So  history,  biography,  and  bwoks  of 
travels  were  perused  by  (lerty  at  an  age  when  most  chil- 
dren's literary  pursuits  arc  confined  to  stories  and  pictures. 
The  child  gave  the  preference  to  this  comparatively  solid 
reading;  and,  aided  bv  F.milv's  explanations,  she  stored  up 
in  her  mind  much  useful  information. 

From  the  time  (lerty  was  first  admitted  until  she  was 

ublic  schools,  and  was 
d  with  Miss  (I  rah  am, 
home,  formed  nearly 
n.  Willie  was  very 
at  (lerty's  participation 
ere  a  irreal  ad  vantage  to 
ragemenl  in  the  ot  her's 
gvmpathy  and  co-operation.  After  the  first  year  or  two  of 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  65 

their  acquaintance,  Willie  was  in  his  fifteenth  year,  and 
beginning  to  look  quite  manly.  But  Gerty 's  eagerness  for 
knowledge  had  all  the  more  inlluenee  upon  him;  for  if  the 
little  girl  of  ten  years  was  patient  and  willing  to  labour  at 
her  books  until  after  nine  o'clock,  the  youth  of  fifteen 
must  not  rub  his  eyes  and  plead  weariness.  When  they 
had  reached  these  ages,  they  began  to  study  French  to- 
gether. Willie's  former  teacher  continued  to  feel  a  kindly 
interest  in  the  boy  who  had  long  been  his  best  scholar, 
and  who  would  certainly  have  borne  away  from  his  class 
the  first  prizes,  had  not  a  higher  duty  called  him  to  inferior 
labours  previous  to  the  public-  exhibition.  Finding  that 
Willie  had  much  spare  time,  he  advised  him  to  learn  the 
French  language,  which  would  prove  useful  to  him — and 
offered  to  lend  him  such  books  as  he  would  need  at  the 
commencement. 

Willie  availed  himself  of  his  teacher's  advice  and  his 
kind  offer,  and  began  to  study  in  good  earnest.  When  he 
was  at  home  in  the  evening,  he  came  into  True's  room, 
partly  for  the  sake  of  quiet  and  partly  for  the  sake  of  being 
with  Gerty,  who  was  at  the  time  occupied  with  her  hooks. 
Gerty  had  a  strong  desire  to  learn  French  too.  Willie 
wished  her  to  try,  but  thought  she  would  not  persevere. 
But  to  his  surprise,  she  discovered  a  wonderful  determina- 
tion, and  a  decided  talent  for  language:  and  as  Emily  fur- 
nished her  with  books  like  Willie's,  she  kept  pace  with 
him,  qf  ten  times  translating  more  during  the  week  than  lie 
could  find  time  to  do.  On  Saturday  evening,  when  thev 
had  always  had  a  fine  study-time  together.  True  would  sit 
on  his  old  settle  watching  Willie  and  Gerty  side  by  side, 
at  the  table,  with  their  eyes  bent  on  the  page,  which  to 
him  seemed  a  labyrinth.  Gerty  looked  out  the  words  with 
great  skill,  her  bright  eyes  diving,  as  if  by  magic,  into  the 
dictionary,  and  transfixing  the  right  word  at  a  glance, 
while  Willie's  province  was  to  make  sense.  Almost  the 
only  occasion  when  True  disturbed  them  was  when  he 
heard  Willie  talk  about  making  sense.  "  Making  sense, 
\Vrillie!"  said  the  old  man;  "is  that  what  ve're  after; 
Well,  you  couldn't  do  a  better  busine 
a  market  for  it;  there's  want  enough 

It  was  but  natural  that,  with  F,mii\  t 
and  Willie  to  aid  and  encourage,  her  inii 
expand  and  strengthen.  But  how  is 


66  TIIK  r.AMr 

heart  of  hers,  that,  at  once  warm  and  affectionate,  impul- 
sive, sensitive,  and  passionate,  now  throbs  witli  love  and 
gratitude,  and  now  again  burns  as  vehemently  with  the 
consuming  tire  that  a.  sense  of  wrong,  a  consciousness  of 
injury  to  herself  or  her  friends,  would  at  any  moment 
enkindle?  lias  she.  in  two  years  of  happy  childhood, 
learned  self-control?  lias  she  also  attained  to  an 
enlightened  sense  of  the  distinction  between  right  and 
wrong,  truth  and  falsehood?  In  short,  has  Emilv  been 
true,  to  her  self-imposed  trust,  her  high  resolve,  to  soften 
the  heart  and  instruct  the  soul  of  the  little  ignorant  one? 
Has  (>erty  learned  religion  ?  lias  she  found  out  (u>d.  and 
begun  to  walk  patiently  in  that  path  which  is  lit  by  a  holy 
light  and  leads  to  rest,  ? 

8he  has  bcuun ;  and  though  her  footsteps  often  falter, 
though  she  sometimes  turns  aside,  and.  impatient  of  the 
narrow  way,  gives  the  rein  to  her  old  irritability,  she  is  yet 
but  a  child,  and  there  is  a  foundation  for  hopefulness  in 
the  sincerity  of  her  good  intentions,  and  the  depth  of  her 
Contrition  when  wrong  has  had  the  mastery.  Kmily  has 
taught  her  where  io  place  her  strong  reliance,  and  ( Jerry 
looks  to  higher  aid  than  Emily's,  and  she  leans  on  u 
mightier  arm. 

How  much  Gerty  had  improved  in  the  two  years  that 
had  passed  since  she  first  began  to  be  so  carefully  in- 
structed and  provided  for,  the  course  of  our  storv  must 
develop.  We  cannot  pause  to  dwell  upon  the  trials  and 
struggles,  the  failures  and  victories,  that  she  experienced. 
It  is  sufficient  to  say  that  Miss  (irabam  was  satisfied  and 
hopeful.  True  proud  and  over-joyed,  while  Mrs.  Sullivan, 
and  even  old  .Mr.  Cooper,  declared  she  had  improved 
wonderfully  in  her  behaviour  and  her  looks. 


CTIAI'TKK  XII. 

AX    ADVKNTCK1-:    AND    A     M  tsroRTt"  N'E. 

ONI:  Saturdav  evening  in  hreember  Willie  came  in 
•with  In-  i'Yeneh  books  iimler  his  arm,  and,  after  the  lirst 
BJilut.'i!  ions,  exclaimed,  as  he  put  the  grammar  and  dic- 
tionary OLL  the  ly,bU;,  "  UU,  (jlcrtj'1  belyre  we  be^in  to 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  67 

study,  I  must  tell  you  and  Uncle  True  the.  funniest  thing 
that  happened  to-day:  1  have  been  laughing  so  at  home, 
as  I  was  telling  mother  about  it!  " 

"' I  heard  you  hi  ugh,"  said  (:erty.  ''If  I  had  not  been 
so  busy,  I  should  have  come  in  to  hear  what  it  was  that 
was  so  very  droll.  But  do  tell  us! '' 

"  Why,  you  will  not  think  it's  anything  like  a  juke  when 
I  begin,  and  I  should  not  be 
been  the  verv  queerest  old   w 
life." 

'•  Old  woman! — You  haven't  t"ld  us  about  one!" 

"But  I'm  going  to."  said  Willie.  "You  noticed  how 
everything  was  covered  \vith  ice  this  morning.  How 
splendidly  it  looked,  didn't  it  ?  I  declare,  when  the  sun 
shone  on  that  great  elm-tire  in  front  of  our  shop,  I 
thought  I  iiever  saw  anything  so  handsome  in  my  life. 
But,  there,  that's  nothing  to  do  v.  ith  my  old  woman — 
only  that  the  side-walks  were  just  like  everything  else,  a 
perfect  glare." 

"  I  want  to  hear  about  your  old  woman.''  said  Oerty. 

"  I  was  standing  at  the  shoi>-door.  about  de\en  o'clock, 
looking  out.  when  I  saw  tin;  strangest-looking  figure  com- 
ing down  the  street.  She  had  on  some  kind  of  a  black 
silk  or  satin  gown,  made  very  scant,  and  trimmed  all 
round  with  some  brownish-looking  ia'-e — black  it  had 
been  once,  but  it  isn't  now — then  she  had  a  grey  cloak,  of 
silk  material,  that  you  certainly  would  have  .-aid  came  out, 
of  the  Ark,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  a  little  cape,  of  a  different, 
colour,  that  she  wore  outside  of  it.  and  which  must  have 
been  dated  a  general  ion  further  ba 
deai-!  it  was  twice  a.s  big  as  anybody' 
figured  lace  veil  thrown  «\"r  one  side 
to  her  feet.  But  her  goggles  crowne 
horrid-looking  things  I  never  saw. 
made  of  black  silk,  with  pieces  of  cloth  of  all  the  colours 
in  the  rainbow  sewed  on  10  it.  xigzag:  then  her  pocket- 
handkerchief  was  pinned  to  her  bag,  and  a  great  feather 
fan — at  this  season  of  the  year!  —that 
somewhere — by  a  string.  1  suppose— and 
kerchief,  and  a  newspaper!  Oil.  graciou 
of  half  the  things;  but  they  were  ail 
with  great  brass  pin.-,  und  hung  in  a  body  on  her  left  arm. 
Her  dress,  though,  wasn't  the  strangest  thing  about  her. 


fiS  'Jin-;  i..\MPur,)iTEii 

What  made  it  funny  v/as.  her  way  of  walking:  sho  looker! 
quite  old  and  infirm,  and  it  was  evident  she  could  hardly 
keep  her  footing  on  the  ice:  and  yet  she,  walked  with  such 
a  consequential  little  air!  (Mi,  (Jerty.  it's  lucky  you  didn't 
see  her!  you'd  have  laughed  from  then  till  this  time.'' 

''Some  poor,  eraxv  crittur,  wasn't  sho  ?  "  asked  True. 

"Oh,  no!''  said  Willie,  "  1  don't  think  she  was;  though 
queer  enough,  hut  no*  erazv.  Just  as  site  got  opposite 
the  shop  door  her  feet  clipped,  and  she  fell  flat  on  the 
pavement.  J  rushed  out.  for  J  thought  the  fall  might 
have  killed  the  pour  little  thing;  and  Mr.  I>ray,  and  a 
gentleman  win. in  he  was  waiting  I'.pon,  followed  me.  She 
did  appear  stunned  at  first:  hut  we  carried  her  into  the 
shop  and  she  came  !o  her  senses  in  a  minute  or  two. 
Crazy  you  asked  if  she  were.  Uncle  True!  No,  not,  she! 
She's  as  hright  as  yon  are!  As  snon  as  she  opened  her 
eyes,  and  seemed  to  knew  \\hat  she  was  ahout,  she  felt  for 
her  work-hag  and  all  its  appendages;  counted  them  up.  to 
pee  if  the  number  were  right,  and  then  nodded  her  head 
very  satisfactorily.  Mr.  I'ray  poured  out  a  glass  of  cordial 
and  offered  it  to  her.  P»y  this  time  she  had  gut  her  airs 
and  graces  hack  a^ain;  MI  when  he  recommended  her  to 
Swallow  the  cord  ial.  A\c  rot  real  ed  with  a  I  it ;  h1  old- fash  imied 
curtscv.  and  put  up  hoth  her  hands  tn  express  her  h<irr«r 
at  the  idea  of  such  a  thing.  The  gentleman  standing  hv 
smiled,  and  advised  her  to  t:il\"  it.  as  it  would  do  1  er  n<> 
harm.  She  turned  round,  mad<  anotl  er  curtsey  I"  him, 
and  askei],  in  a  lit!1!1  •  racked  voice,  •  ('an  \  on  assure  inc. 
sir,  as  a  gentleman  of  candour  and  gallantry,  that  il  is 
not  an  exhilarating  pot  i  r'  The  gentleman  eould  hardly 
keep  from  laughing;  l>ui  ;  •••  I  d  her  i*  was  nothing  that 
•would  hurt  her.  '  Then,' said  she,  '  1  will  venture  to  Hp 
the  1  evoraiM' ;  i;  has  most  ;,  nmatic  IV;  .  :  ee.'  Siie 
seem ei  1  to  like  the  : ;:  le  ;:s  well  a.-  I  h  m-  11.  \'«r  she  drank 
everv  di'np  <>!'  it:  she  turned  io  me  and  said.'  l-..xeept 

i  I 

n  pi  in  tins  gent  li-iiii  n's  assurance  of  i  i  ••  harmli  ->ness  nf 
t  he  liijiiid.  I  won  Id  in  '  c  sNvallnued  i'  in  yniir  pres- 
oncc,  tuv  vniiiiL1'  master,  if  :;  \ver>'  ('lily  !'<•!'  the  i .,  a  unite. 

I  have    set     MI  V    M    d    In    r    i    tetn  perancc    pledge,  hut     [    ;mi 

•i  PII  -    -i    hid  v  :    ' :     i  -    u  il  h    MM-    a 

II  i-r     nt'    eiiiiii-i       ,      ,         •     :     of    !'i-:!,".'      Mie     im\\      .-eciued 

re-lured,     •    .  '  ,  mi    her  walk  ; 

i\':is  ijn;   sai'i     .  •  •  >,   I  he  .ee,  and    .Nil'. 


T1IK  LAMPLIGHTER.  fiO 

Bray  thought  so,  for  ho  asked  her  where  she  was  going? 
She  told  him,  in  h<>r  roundabout  way,  that  she  was  going 
to  pass  the  day  with  mistress  somebody,  that  lived  near 
the  Common.  I  touched  Mr.  Hrav's  arm,  and  said,  in  a 
low  voice,  that  if  he  could  spare  me,  I'd  go  with  her.  lie 
said  he  shouldn't  want  me  i'or  an  hour;  so  I  offered  her 
my  arm  and  told  her  I  should  be  happy  to  wait  upon  her.' 
You  ought  to  have  seen  her  then.  If  J  had  been  a  grown- 
up man,  and  she  a  young  lady,  she  couldn't  have  tossed  her 
head  or  giggled  more.  But  ,-he  took  mv  arm  and  we 
started  oil'.  I  knew  .Mr.  IJrav  and  the  gentleman  were 
laughing  to  see  us,  but  i  didn't  care;  I  pitied  the  old  lady, 
and  I  did  not  mean  -'he  should  get  another  tumble. 

"livery  person  wo  met  ..--tared  at  us;  we  were  such  a 
grotesque  looking  eouple.  She  accept"-!  my  proifered 
arm,  and  clasped  her  hands  together  round  it,  making  a 
complete  handle  of  her  i  \\-0  arms;  and  so  she  hung  on 
with  all  her  might.  I>n!  i  ought  not  to  laugh  at  the  poor 
clung,  for  she  needed  somebody  to  help  her  along,  and  I'm 
sure  she  wasn't  heavy  enough  to  tiro  me  out,  it'  she  did 
make  the  most  of  herself.  I  wonder  \\hoshe  belongs  to. 
I  shouldn't  think  her  friends  would  let  her  go  about  the 
streets  so,  especially  such  walking  as  it,  is  to-dav.'' 

"What's  her  name?"  inquired  (iertv.  "'Didn't  von 
End  out?" 

"No,"  answered  Willie;  "she  wouldn't  tell  me.  I 
asked  her,  but  she  only  said,  in  li'-r  little  cracked  voice 
(and  here  \Villie  began  in  l-ugh  immoderately),  that  she 
was  the  i/n'nt/>/ !/••>,  and  tha1  n  was  the  part  of  a  true  and 
gallant  kniirht  to  discover  the  name  of  his  fail'  lady.  Oh, 
I  promise  you  she  was  a  ea;.-e!  \\'hv,  you  never  lizard  any- 
one talk  so  ridiculously  as  she  did!  ]  asked  her  how  old 
she  was.  Mother  said  that  was  verv  impolite,  but  it's  the 
only  uncivil  thing  1  did  or  said,  as  ;he  old  lady  would 
testify  herself  if  she  were  here." 

"  How  old  is  slit;?"  said  i  iertv. 

"Sixteen." 

"Why,  Willie,  what  do  you  mean  ? '' 

"That's  what  she  told  "me,"  , -aid  Willie;  "and  a  true 
and  gallant  knight  must  believe  his  fa  r  lady." 

"  Poor  bod  V  !  "   said   TlTe  ;    "  ,-he's  ei  ildisti !  ' 

"  No,  she  isn't  I'ncle  Ti  Me,"  said  \\iiii";  "you'd  think 
so  part  of  the  tune,  to  heal1  her  run  on  with  her  iioii.-;t'iisoj 


70  THE  LAyVI.mUTKlt. 

and  then,  the  next  minute,  she'd  speak  as  sensible  as  any- 
body,  and  sav  how  much  obliged  she  was  to  me  for  being 
willing  to  put  myself  to  so  much  trouble  for  the  sake  of 
an  old  woman  like  her.  Just  as  we  turned  into  Ik-aeon 
Street  we  met  a  school  o!'  girls,  blooming  beauties,  liand- 
some  enough  to  kill,  my  old  lady  railed  them:  and  when 
thfv  eame  in  sight,  she  seemed  to  take  it  for  granted  I 
should  get  away  from  her.  ami  run  after  some  of  them. 
But  she  held  on  with  a  vengeance!  It's  lucky  1  had  no 
idea  of  forsaking  her,  for  it  would  have  been  impossible! 
Some  of  them  .Mopped  and  stared  at  us  —of  course  I  didn't 
care  how  much  thev  stared:  but  she  seemed  to  think  1 
should  be  terribly  mortified;  ami  when  we  had  passed 
them  all,  she  complimented  me  again  and  again  on  my 
spirit  of  conformity,  her  favourite  expression." 

Here  Willie  was  out  of  breath.  True  elapped  him 
upon  the  shoulder.  "(Jood  bov,  "\\illie)''"  said  he. 
''clever  bov!  Yon  aluavs  |onk  out  for  the  old  folks,  and 
that's  riu'ht.  h'e.-jieot  for  the  aged  is  u  good  thing; 
though  your  grandfather  s;i\s  it's  very  much  out  of 
fashion." 

"  I  don't  know  mm-h  about  ftishion,  1'nele  True;  l>ut  I 
should  think  it  was  a  prctiv  mean  sort  of  a  boy  that  would 
see  an  old  ladv  get  one  fall  on  the  ice.  and  not  save  her 
from  another  bv  seeing  her  safe  home/' 

"  Willie's  alwavs  kind  to  everybody."  sa.id  Gerty. 

"Willie's  either  a  hero/"  said  the  boy.  "or  else  he  has 
got  two  pretty  good  friends — !  rather  think  it's  the  latter. 
But,  come,  deny.  Charles  the  Twelfth  is  waiting  for  us, 
and  we  must  studv  as  much  as  we  can  to-night.  \\  e  may 
not  have  another  chance  very  soon,  for  Mr.  Bray  isn't  well 
this  evtning:  lie  seems  threatened  with  a  fever,  and  I 
promised  to  go  back  {«  the  -hop  alter  dinner  to-morrow. 
If  he  should  be  sick,  1  shall  have  plenty  to  do  without 
coming  home  at  a  i  I." 

"Oh,  I  hope  Mi-.  Bray  is  ];<>{  g»ing  to  have  a  fever," 
said  True  and  (iertv,  in  the  same  breath. 

"  He's  such  a  clever  man!  "  said  True. 

"He's  so  good  to  you.  Willie!"  added  Uerty. 

Willie  hoped  ji"t,  too;  bul  his  hopes  gave  way  to  his 
fear-;,  when  he  found  on  the  following  day  that  his  kind 
master  was  n"t  able  in  1.  uve  hi.-  t>ed.  and  the  doctor  pro- 
uouuced  his  s\ni[ii  :n  .  n  .:\&  A  typhoid  fever  set  in, 


T1TK  LAMPLIGHTER.  71 

which  in  a  few  days  terminated  the  life  of  the  excellent 
apothecary. 

The  death  of  Mr.  Bray  was  a  dreadful  blow  to  Willie. 
The  .shop  was  closed,  the  widow  having  decided  to  dispose 
of  the  stock,  and  remove  into  the  country.  Willie  was 
thus  left  without  employment,  and  deprived  of  Mr.  Bray's 
valuable  assistance.  His  earnings  had  promoted  the  com- 
fort of  his  mother  and  grandfather,  who  had  thus  been 
enakkled  to  relax  their  own  labours.  The  thought  of  being 
a  burden  to  them  was  intolerable  to  the  independent  spirit 
of  the  boy;  and  he  tried  to  obtain  another  place  He 
applied  to  the  dill'erent  apothecaries  in  the  city,  but  none 
of  them  wanted  a  youth  of  his  age.  He  returned  home 
at  night,  disappointed,  but  not  discouraged.  If  lie  could 
not  obtain  employment  with  an  apothecary,  he  would  do 
something  else.  But  what  should  he  do  ?  That  was  the 
question,  lie  had  long  talks  with  his  mother  about  it. 
She  felt  that  his  talents  and  education  entitled  him  to  fill 
a  position  equal  to  that  lie  had  already  occupied;  and 
could  not  endure  the  thought  o-f  his  descending  to  more 
menial  service.  Willie,  without  pride,  thought  so  too. 
He  knew  he  could  give  satisfaction  in  a  station  which  re- 
quired more  business  talent  than  his  situation  at  Mr. 
Brav's  had  ever  given  scope  to.  So  lie  had  made  every 
possible  inquiry,  but  he  had  no  one  to  speak  a  good  word 
for  him,  and  so  he  met  with  no  success,  and  day  after  day 
returned  home  silent  and  depressed. 


CHAPTER  X 1 11. 

BRIGHTENING    PKOSI'F.rTS. 

Tins  was  altogether  a  new  experience  to  AVillie,  and  a 
very  trying  one.  But  he  bore  it  bravely;  kepi  all  his  worst 
struggles  from  his  anxious  mother  and  desponding  grand- 
father, and  resolved  to  hope  against  hope.  (Jertv  was  now 
his  chief  comforter,  lie  told  her  all  his  troubles,  and, 
young  as  she  was,  she  was  a  wonderful  consoler.  Always 
looking  on  the  bright  side,  she  did  much  towards  keeping' 
up  his  hopes  and  strengthening  his  resolutions.  She  knew 


72  THK  LAMPLIGHTKU. 

more  than  most  children  of  the  various  ways,  in  which  she 
sometimes  made  valuable  suggestions  to  Willie,  of  which 
he  gladly  availed  himself.  Among  others,  she  one  day 
asked  him  if  he  had  applied  at  the  agency  offices.  He  had 
never  thought  of  it— wondered  he  had  not,  but  would  try. 
lie  did  so,  and  for  a  time  was  buoyed  up  with  hopes  held 
out  to  him:  but  they  proved  fleeting,  and  lie  was  now 
almost  in  despair,  when  his  eye  fell  upon  an  advertisement 
in  a  newspaper,  which  seemed  to  afford  another  chance. 
He  showed  it  to  (Jerty.  It  was  just  the  thing. 

(Jerty  was  so  sanguine,  that  \\  illie  presented  himself  the 
next  day  at  the  place  specified  with  a  more  eager  counte- 
nance than  he  had  ever  yet  worn.  The  gentleman  talked 
with  him  some  time;  a^ked  a  great  many  questions,  hinted 
his  doubts  about  his  capability,  and  finally  declared  he  was 
not  eligible,  lie  returned  with  such  a  heavy  heart  that  he 
could  not  meet  his  mother,  and  so  he  went  to  True's  room, 
it  was  the  night,  before  Christmas.  True  had  gone  out, 
and  (Jertv  was  alone.  Sin;  was  preparing  a  cake  for  tea — 
one  of  the  few  branches  of  (he  cooking  department  in 
which  she  had  acquired  some  skill.  She  was  just  coming 
from  the  pantrv,  with  a  scoop-full  of  meal  in  her  hand, 
when  Willie  entered,  lie  loosed  his  cap  upon  the  settle, 
and  leaned  his  head  upon  his  hand.1-:,  and  this  betrayed  the 
defeat  the  poor  boy  had  met  with.  It  \\as  so  unlike  Willie 
to  come  in  without  speaking— il  was  such  a  strange  thing 
to  see  his  bright  young  head  bowed  down  with  care,  and 
his  elastic  figure  looking  tired  and  old,  that  (Jerty  knew  at 
once  his  brave  heart  had  given  way.  She  laid  down  the 
scoop,  ami  walking  up  to  him,  touched  his  arm  with  her 
hand,  and  looked  up  anxiously  into  his  face.  Her  sympa- 
thetic look'  u  as  more  than  he  could  bear,  lie  laid  his 
head  on  t  he  table,  and  in  a  minute  more  ( Jert  v  heard  great 
heaw  sobs,  eadi  one  <>\'  which  sank  deep  into  her  soul. 
She  often  cried  herself— it  seemed  onlv  natural;  but  Willie 
—the  laughing,  happv.  light-hearted  Willie — she  had  never 
seen  III  111  cry:  she  didn't  know  he  nnihl.  She  crept  up  on 
the  rounds  of  his  chair,  and  putting  her  arm  round  his 
shouldn't  mind,  Willie,  if  1  didn't  get 
•lieve  it  '-•  ;,  i/i  mi  place." 
it  Keiti  r,"  said  Willie,  lifting  up  his 
•hall  I  do?  1  can't  get  any  place,  and  I 
can't  slav  here  doing  nothing  '' 


T1TK  LAMPLIGHTER.  7:> 

"We  like  to  have  you  at  homo,"  said  (lerty. 

"  It's  pleasant  enough  to  be  at  home.  I  v\as  always  glad 
enough  to  come  when  I  lived  at  Mr.  Bray's  and  \va.s  earn- 
ing something,  and  could  i'eel  as  if  anybody  was  glad  to  see 
me." 

"  Everybody  is  glad  to  see  you  now.''' 

"But  not  as  they  were  then"  said  Willie;  "mother.-1 
always  looks  as  if  she  expected  to  hear  I'd  got  somei.hing 
to  do;  and  grandfather,  I  believe,  never  thought,  1  should  lie 
good  for  much;  and  now,  as  I  was  beginning  to  earn  some- 
thing. and  be  a  help  to  them,  I've  lost  mv  chance!  '' 

"But  that  an't  your  fault,  Willie;  you  couldn't  help  Mr. 
Bray's  dying.  I  shouldn't  think  Mr.  Cooper  would  blame 
you  for  not  having  anything  to  do  HUH'." 

"  He  don't  blame  me;  but  if  you  were  in  my  place  you'd 
feel  just  as  I  do,  to  see  him  sit  in  his  arm-chair  in  the  even- 
ing, and  groan  ami  look  up  at  me,  as  much  as  to  say,  '  It's 
i/o/'  I'm  groaning  about.'  '' 

"  Have  heart,"  said  (ierty;  "I  think  \oifll  be  rich,  some 
time  —  and  fliai,  won't  he  be  astonished!" 

"Oh,  (Jerty!  you're  a  nice  child,  and  I  think  I  can  do 
anything.  If  ever  I  am  rich,  I  promise  to  go  shares  with 
you;  but  'tan't  so  easy.  1  used  to  think  1  could  make 
money  when  I  grew  up;  but  it's  pretty  slow  business." 

Here  he  was  on  the  point  of  leaning  down  upon  the 
table  again,  and  giving  himself  up  to  melancholy;  but 
(Jrerty  caught  hold  of  his  hands.  "  Come."  said  she,  "  Wil- 
lie, don't  think  any  more  about  it.  People  have  troubles 
always,  but  they  get  over  'em;  perhaps  nex!  week  you'll  be 
in  a  better  shop  than  Mr.  Bray's,  and  we  shall  be  as  happy 
as  ever.  Do  you  know."  said  she,  changing  the  subject 
"it's  just  two  years  to-niglil  since  1  came  here:1 

"  Is  it  ?  "  said  Willie.  "Did  Uncle  True  bring  you  horn* 
with  him  the  night  before  Christmas:'  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Why,  that  was  Santa  Clans  carryingyou  to  good  things, 
instead  of  bringing  good  thing's  to  you,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

(ierty  did  not  know  anything  about  Santa  Claus,  that 
special  friend  of  children;  and  Willie,  who  had  only  lately 
read  about  him  in  some  book,  undertook  to  tell  her  what 
he  knew  of  the,  veteran  to-dealer.  Findin  the  interest 


her  cooking,  listening  attentively  to  his  story.      When  he 


74  7777?  LA 

had  finished,  she  was  kneeling  bv  (lie  stove;  IHT  eyes 
twinkled  with  such  a  merry  look,  that  Willie  exclaimed, 
"  What  are  you  thinking  of,  (Jertv,  that  makes  you  look  so 
sly?" 

"  I  was  thinking  that  perhaps  Santa  Clans  would  come 
for  you  to-night..  If  he  comes  for  folks  that  need  some- 
thing, I  expect  he'll  come  for  you,  and  carry  you  to  some 
place  where  you'll  have  a  chance  to  grow  rich." 

"  Very  likely,"  said  Willie;  "he'll  clap  me  into  his  bag 
and  trudge  oil'  with  me  as  a  present  to  somebody — some  old 
Cnesus,  that  will  give  me  a  fortune  for  the  asking.  I  do 
hope  he  will;  for,  if  I  don't  get  something  to  do  soon,  I 
shall  despair." 

True  now  came  in,  and  interrupted  the  conversation  by  the 
display  of  a  fine  turkey,  a  Christ  mas  present  from  Mr.  Graham. 
He  had  also  a  book  for  (lerty,  a  gift  from  Emily. 

"  Isn't  that  queer,"  exclaimed  (ierty.  "  Willie  was  just 
saying  you  were  my  Santa  Clans,  Uncle  True;  and  I  do 
believe  you  are.''  As  she  spoke  she  opened  the  book,  and 
in  the  frontispiece  was  a  portrait  of  that  individual.  "  It 
looks  like  him,  Willie,  1  declare  it  does!"  shouted  she;  "a 
fur  cap,  a  pipe,  and  just  such  a  pleasant  face:  oh.  Uncle 
True,  if  you  only  had  a  sack  full  of  toys  over  your  shoulder, 
instead  of  your  lantern  and  that  great  turkey,  you  would 
be  a  complete  Santa  Clans.  Haven't  you  got  anything  for 
Willie,  Uncle  True  ?  " 

"Yes,  I've  got  a  little  something;  but  I'm  afeared  he 
won't  think  much  on't.  It's  only  a  bit  of  a  note.'' 

"A  note  for  me?"  inquired  Willie.  "Who  can  it  be 
from  ?  " 

"  Can't  say,"  said  True,  fumbling  in  his  pockets;  "only 
just  round  the  corner  I  met  a  man  who  stopped  me  to  in- 
quire where  Mrs.  Sullivan  lived.  I  told  him  she  lived  jist 
here,  and  I'd  show  him  the  house.  When  he  saw  I  lived 
here  too,  he  gave  me  this  little  scrap  O"' paper,  and  asked 
me  to  hand  it  to  Master  \\  illi;im  Sullivan.  1  s'pose  that's 
you,  an't  it!'"  He  handed  Willie  the  slip  of  paper:  and 
the  boy,  taking  Tr ue's  lantern  in  his  hand,  and  holding  the 
note  up  to  the  light,  read  aloud: — "  II.  11.  Clinton  would 
like  to  see  William  Snlli\an  on  Thursday  morning,  between 
ten  and  eleven  o'clock,  at  No.  lo  —  -  \\harf." 

Willie  looked  up  in  amazement.  "  What  does  it  mean  ?" 
said  lie;  "  1  don't  know  any  such  person." 


777/7  LAimi 

"I  know  who  ho  is."  said  Tru 
in  the  groat  stone 
and    Unit's   the 
rather — on  -     -  Wharf! 

'•  What  !  father  to  those  pretty  children  we  used  to  seo 
in  the  window  ?  '' 

"  The  very  same.'' 

"What  can  he  want  of  me?'' 

"  Very  likely  he  wants  vour  sarvico?/'  suggested  True. 

"Then  it's  a  place!  "  rried  (iertv,  "a  real  ^ood  one.  and 
Santa  Clans  came  and  brought  it:  1  said  he  would!  Oh, 
Willie.  I'm  so  glad!" 

Willie  did  not  know  wliether  to  he  glad  or  not.  He 
could  not  1.) nt  hope,  as  ileriv  and  True  did,  that  it  might 
prove  the  dawning  of  some  good  fnrtiine;  but  he  had  rea- 
sons for  believing  that  no  oliVr  from  this  quarter  <  ould  be 
available  to  him.  a:id  therefore  made  them  both  promise  to 
give  no  hint  of  the  matter  to  his  mother  or  Mr.  Cooper. 

On  Thursday  Willie  presented  himself  at  the  appointed 
time  and  place.  Mr.  Clinton,  a  gentlemanly  man,  received 
him  kindly,  asked  but  few  questions,  and  telling  him  that 
he  was  in  want  of  a  young  man  to  fill  the  plaee  of  junior 
clerk  in  his  counting-room,  oll'ered  him  the  situation. 
Willie  hesitated;  for,  though  the  olVer  was  most  encour- 
aging, Mr.  Clinton  made  no  mention  of  anv  salary:  and 
that  was  a  thing  the  youth  could  not  dispense  with.  See- 
ing that  he  was  undecided,  Mr.  Clinton  said.  "  Perhaps  you 
do  not  like  my  proposal,  or  have  made  some  other  engage- 
ment ?  '" 

"'  No,  indeed,''  answered  Willie,  (piieklv.  *'•'  You  arc  very 
kind  to  feel  so  much  confidence  in  a  stranger  as  to  be 
willing  to  receive  me,  and  vour  offer  is  a  most  welcome 
one:  but  I  have  been  in  a  retail  store,  where  I  obtained 
regular  earnings,  which  wore  verv  important  to  my  mother 
and  grandfather.  1  had  far  rather  be  in  a  counting-room 
like  vours,  sir,  and  1  think  1  miu'hi  learn  to  be  of  use;  but 
1  think  there  are  numbers  of  bovs,  sons  of  rich  men,  u 
would  be  crlad  to  be  employed  bv  von.  and  woul 
compensation  for  their  services, 
anv  salarv,  at  least  for  some  v 
well  repaid,  at  the  end  of  that 
niiidit  u'ain  of  mercantile  ail'airs 
can  no  more  afford  it  than  i  could  afford  to  ^ 


70  THE  LAMI'LWITTER. 

The  gentleman  smiled.  '•'  How  did  yon  know  so  much 
of  these  matters,  my  young  friend  ?" 

"  I  have  heard,  sir,  from  boys  \vlio  were  at  school  with 
me,  and  are  now  clerks  in  mercantile  houses,  that  they  re- 
ceived no  pay,  and  I  always  considered  it  a  perfectly  fair 
arrangement;  but  it  was  the  reason  why  I  felt  bound  to 
content  myself  with  the  position  I  held  in  an  apothecary's; 
shop,  which,  though  it  was  not  suited  to  my  taste,  enabled 
me  to  support  myself,  and  to  relieve  my  mother,  who  is  a 
widow,  and  my  grandfather,  who  is  old  and  poor." 

"  Your  grandfather  is — 

"Mr.  Cooper,  sexton  of  Mr.  Arnold's  church." 

"Alia!  "  said  Mr.  Clinton,  "  J  know  him,  AVhat  you  say, 
William,  is  true.  \Ve  do  not  pay  any  salary  to  our  young 
clerks,  and  are  overrun  with  applications  at  that  rate;  but 
I  have  heard  good  accounts  of  you.  my  boy  (I  shan't  tell 
you  where  1  had  my  information,  though  1  see  you  look 
very  curious),  and,  moreover,  I  like  your  countenance,  and 
believe  you  will  serve  me  faithfully.  So,  if  you  will  tell 
me  what  you  received  from  Mr,  Bray,  1  will  pay  you  the 
same  next  year,  and  after  that  increase  your  salary,  if  I 
find  you  deserve  it:  and  you  may  commence  with  me  on 
the  first  of  January." 

Willie  thanked  Mr.  Clinton  and  departed.  The  mer- 
chant was  reminded  of  the  time  when  he  too,  the  only  son 
of  his  mother,  and  she  a  widow,  had  come  alone  to  the 
citv,  sought  long  for  employment,  and  finding  it  at  last, 
had  sat  down  to  write  and  tell  her  how  he  hoped  soon  to 
earn  enough  for  himself  and  her.  And  the  spirits  of  those 
mothers  who  have  wept,  prayed,  and  thanked  (iod  over 
similar  communications  from  much-loved  sons 
how  to  svmpathise  with  good  Mrs.  Sullivan, 
heard  from  \\illic  the  jo\fnl  tidings.  True 
:'.\li!  Master  Vv  illie,  t  liev  needn't  have  worried 
li'-cd  t  liev  ?  I've  told  vour  grandfather  more 
that  1  was  of  the  'pinion  'twould  all  come  out  right  at 
last." 


THE  LAMPLW1ITE11  77 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE    MINISTERING    ANGEL. 

"  I  WONDER,"  said  Miss  Peekout,  as  she  leaned  on  the 
-ill  of  the  front  window,  and  looked  up  and  down  the 
.-treet — "I  wonder  who  that  slender  girl  is  that  walks  by 
here  every  morning,  with  that  feeble-looking  old  man  lean- 
ing on  her  arm?  I  always  see  them  at  just  about  this 
lime,  when  the  weather  permits.  She's  a  nice  child,  and 
seems  to  be  very  fond  of  the  old  man — probably  her  grand- 
father. I  notice  she's  careful,  to  leave  the  best  side  of  the 
walk  for  him,  and  she  watches  every  step  he  takes:  she 
needs  to  do  so,  fur  ho  tottery  sadly.  Poor  little  thing!  she 
looks  pale  and  anxious:  I  wonder  if  she  takes  all  the  care 
of  the  old  man!  "  But  they  are  iiow  quite  out  of  sight. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  old  ."Mrs.  Crumble,  as  she  sat  at  her 
window,  a  little  further  down  the  street,  "if  I  should  live 
to  be  old  and  infirm — (Mrs.  (Irumblo  was  over  seventy,  but 
as  yet  suffered  fror:  no  infirmity  but  that  of  a  very  irritable 
temper) — I  wonder  if  anybody  would  wait  upon  me,  and 
take  care  of  me  as  that  little  girl  does  of  her  grandfather! 
Mo,  Pll  warrant  not!  "Who  ean  she  be?" 

"  There,  look,  Belle!  "  said  one  young  girl  to  another, 
on  their  way  to  school;  "  there's  the  girl  that  we  meet  every 
day  with  the  old  man.  How  can  you  say  you  don't  think 
she's  pretty  ?  I  admire  her  looks!  " 

"  You  always  do  manage,  Kitty,  to  admire  people  that 
everybody  else  thinks  are  horrid-looking.''' 

"  Horrid-looking!"  replie  Kitty;  "'.-he's  anything  hut 
horrid-looking !  Do  notice,  now,  Belle,  when  we  meet 
them,  she  has  the  xH'1-cfp-f.k  way  of  looking  up  in  the  old 
man's  face,  and  talking  to  him.  1  ironder  what,  is  the 
matter  with  him!  Do  sec  how  his  arm  shakes — the  one 
that's  passed  through  hers!'" 

The  two  couples  are  now  close  to  each  other,  and  they 
pass  in  silence. 

"  l)un'(   n»n  think   (hat 
said   Kittv,  eau'erlv,  as  soon 

'    She's    •_;•(>  t    liiUldsunir 

see    anything    else    that    lu 


78  TEE  LAMPLIGHTER. 

wonder  if  she  don't  hate  to  walk  in  the  street  with  that  old 
grandfather;  trudging  along  so  slow,  with  the  sun  shining 
in  her  face,  and  he  leaning  on  her  arm,  and  shakingso  that 
he  can  hardly  keep  on  his  feet !  Catch  me  doing  it  " 

"  Why,  Belle!  "  exclaimed  Kitty,"  how  can  you  talk  so  ? 
I'm  sure  I  pity  that  old  man  dreadfully." 

"Lor!  "  said  Belle,  "  what's  the  use  of  pitying?     If  yor 
,are  going  to  begin  to  pity,  you'll  have  to  do  it  all  the  tinu 
'Look," — Belle  touched  'her    companion's  elbow — "  tlKiv' 
Willie  Sullivan,  father's  clerk:  an't  he  a  beauty?     1  wan; 
to  speak  to  him." 

But  before  she  could  address  a  word  to  him,  Willie,  who 
was  walking  verv  fast,  passed  her  with  a  bow,  and  a 
pleasant  "  Good  morning.  Miss  Isabel; '"  and  ere  she  had 
recovered  from  the  surprise  and  disappointment,  was  some 
rods  down  the  street. 

"Polite!"  muttered  the  pretty  Isabel. 

"Why,  Belle!  do  see,"  said  Kitty,  who  was  looking  back- 
over  her  shoulder,  "  he's  overtaken  the  old  man  and  my 
interesting  little  girl.  Look  — look!  He's  put  the,  old 
man's  other  arm  through  his,  and  they  are  all  three  walk- 
ing off  together.  Isn't  that  quite  a  coincidence  ?  " 

"  Nothing  very  remarkable,'''  replied  Belle,  who  seemed  a 
little  annoyed.  "I  suppose  they  are  per-ons  he's  ac- 
quainted with.  Come,  make  haste;  we  shall  be  late  at 
school." 

Reader!  Do  you  wniKlcr  who  they  are.  the  girl  and  the 
old  man?  or  have  you  already  conjectured  that  they  are 
Gerty  and  True-man  .Flint  ?  True  is  no  longer  the  brave, 
strong,  sturdy  protector  of  the  lonely  child.  True  has  had 
a  paralytic  stroke.  His  ,-lrength  is  gone,  his  power  even 
to  walk  alone,  lie  sits  all  day  in  his  arm-chair,  or  on  the 
old  settle,  when  he  i.-;  not  out  walking  with  (icrty.  The 
blow  suddenly  struck  down  the  robust  man,  ami  left  him 
feeble  as  a  child.  And  the  little  orphan  girl  who,  in  her 
weakness,  her  lorn-lines-,  and  her  poverty,  found  in  him  a 
father  and  a  mot  her.,  she  now 
staff,  his  comfort,  and  his  nope 
that  he  has  cherished  I  he  Trail 
ing  strength  for  the  f.inie  \\  ! 
>/»'  the  sustaining  pos\er:  ; 
was  iv.nl  v  to  respi  >nd  !  .•  i  lie 
child,  but  a  woman'-  frrniiu.-. 


THE  LAMPLKUITP1R.  79 

but  a  woman's  capacity;  the  earnestness  of  a  child,  but  a 
woman's  perseverance — from  morning  till  night,  the  faith- 
ful little  nurse  and  housekeeper  labours  untiringly  in  the 
service  of  her  iirst,  her  best  friend.  Kver  at  his  side,  ever 
attending  to  his  wants,  and  yet  most  wonderfully  accom- 
plishing many  things  which  he  never  sees  her  do,  she 
seems,  indeed,  to  the  fond  old  man,  what  he  once  prophe- 
sied she  would  become — God's  embodied  blessing  to  his 
latter  years,  cheering  his  pathway  to  the  grave. 

Though  disease  had  robbed  True's  limbs  of  their  power,, 
the  blast  had  spared  his  mind,  which  was  clear  and  tran- 
quil as  ever;  while  his  pious  heart  was  fixed  in  humble 
trust  on  that  God  whose  presence  and  love  he  had  ever 
acknowledged,  and  on  whom  he  so  fully  relied,  that  even 
in  this  bitter  trial  he  was  able  to  say,  in  perfect  submission, 
"Thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done!" 

Only  about  two  months  previous  to  the  morning  of 
which  we  have  been  speaking  had  True  been  stricken  down. 
He  had  been  in  failing  health,  but  had  still  been  able  to 
attend  to  his  duties  until  one  day  in  June,  when  Gerty 
went  into  his  room,  and  found,  to  her  surprise,  that  he  had 
hot  risen,  although  it  was  much  later  than  his  usual  hour. 
On  going  to  the  bedside  and  speaking  to  him,  she  saw  that 
he  looked  strangely,  and  had  lost  the  power  of  speech. 
Bewildered  and  frightened,  she  ran  to  call  Mrs.  Sullivan. 
A  physician  was  summoned,  the  case  pronounced  one  of 
paralysis,  and  for  a  time  it  was  feared  that  it  would  prove 
fatal,  lie  soon,  however,  began  to  amend,  recovered  his 
speech,  and  in  a  week  or  two  was  well  enough  to  walk 
about  with  Gerty's  assistance. 

The  doctor  hud  recommended  as  much  gentle  exercise 
»s  possible,  and  everv  pleasant  morning,  before  the  day 
grew  warm,  Gerty  presented  herself  equipped  for  those 
walks,  which  excited  so  much  observation.  At  the  same 
time  she  made  such  little  household  purchases  as  were 
necessary,  that  she  might  not  go  out  again  and  leave  True 
alone. 

On  the  occasion  alluded  to,  Willie  accompanied  them  us 
far  as  the  provision  shop;  and,  having  seen  True-  comfort- 
ably seated,  proceeded  to  the  \V  liHi'f,  while  Gerfy  stepped 
up  to  the  counter  to  bargain  for  the  dinner.  She  pur- 
chased a  bit  of  veal  suitable  for  hrol  b,  gazed  wi>tl'ully  at 
Borne  tempting  summer  vegetables,  turned  away  and  sighed 


80  THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 

She  held  in  her  hand  the  wallet  which  contained  all  their 
money;  it  had  now  been  in  her  keeping  for  some  weeks, 
and  was  growing  light  :  it  was  no  use  to  think  about  the 
vegetables ;  and  she  sighed,  for  she  remembered  how  True 
enjoyed  the  green  peas  lust  year.  "  How  much  is  the 
meat  ?"  asked  she  of  the  butcher,  who  named  the  sum. 
It  was  so  UUlf  that  it  almost  seemed  to  (Jerty  as  if  he  had 
seen  into  her  purse,  and  her  thoughts  too,  and  knew  how 
glad  she  would  be  that  it  did  not  cost  anv  more.  As  lie 
luu id ei  her  the  change,  lie  leaned  over  the  counter,  and 
asked,  in  an  undertone,  what  kind  of  nourishment  Mr. 
Flint  was  able  to  take. 

"  The  doctor  said  any  wholesome  food." 

'•  Don't  you  think  he'd  relish  some  green  peas?  I've  got 
some  first-rate  ones,  fresh  from  the  country;  and.  if  you'd 
think  he'd  eat  'em,  I  should  like  to  send  you  some.  My 
boy  shall  take  round  half-a-pcrk  or  so,  and  I'll  put  the 
meat  right  in  the  same  basket." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  (lerty;  "'ho  likes  green  peas." 

"Very  well!  Then  I'll  send  him  some  beauties; ''  and 
he  turned  away  to  wait  upon  another  customer,  so  quick 
that  (iert.y  thought  he  did  not  see  how  the  colour  came 
into  her  face  and  the  tears  into  her  eyes.  ]>ut  he  did  see, 
and  that  was  the  rcaxrni  he  turned  awav  so  quickly. 

True  had  an  excellent  appetite,  enjoyed  and  praised  the 
dinner  exceedingly,  and,  after  eating  heartily  of  it,  fell 
asleep  in  his  chair.  The  moment  he  awoke,  Gert}  sprung 
to  his  side,  exclaiming,  *'  Uncle  True,  here's  Miss  Emily! 
—here's  dear  Miss  Emily  come  to  visit  you." 

''The  Lord  bless  you,  my  dear,  dear  voung  lady!*' said 
True,  trving  to  rise  from  his  chair  and  go  towards  her. 

"  Don't  rise,  Mr.  Flint;  1  beg  you  will  not,"  said  Emily, 
xvhose  quick  ear  perceived  the  motion.  "  From  what  (icrty 
tells  me,  1  fear  you  ;ire  not  able.  I'lease  give  me  a  chair, 
(ierty,  nearer  to  Mr.  Flint." 

She  drew  near,  took  True's  hand,  but  looked  inexpressi- 
biv  shocki  d  as  she  observed  how  tremulous  it  had  become. 

"Ah,  .Miss  E;jpJB},"  said  he,  "  I'm  not  the  same  man  as 
when  I  saw  you  T;i.-:  .  the  Lord  has  given  me  a  warning, 
and  1  shan't  be  hen-  long.'3 

"  I  am  so  sorry  i  did  not  know  of  this!  "said  Ftuily. 
'•  I  -!">u!d  have  come  to  ,-ee  vou  b<  fore,  but  I  never  heard 
<o!  your  illness  until  to-day,  George,  my  father's  man,  saw 


T1IK  LAMPLIGHT  Ell  81 

you  and  Gertrude  at  a  shop  this  morning,  and  he  told  me. 
Gertrude  should  have  sent  me  word." 

Gerty  was  standing  by  T rue's  chair,  smoothing  his  grey 
locks  with  her  slender  lingers.  As  Emily  mentioned  her 
name,  he  turned  and  looked  at  her.  0  what  a  look  of  love 
he  gave  her!  Gerty  never  forgot  it. 

''  Miss  Emily/'  said  he,  '•  'twas  no  need  for  anvhody  to 
he  troubled,  The  Lord  provided  for  me  His  own  self. 
All  the  doctors  and  nurses  in  the  land  couldn't  have  done 
half  so  much  for  me  as  this  lit  tie  gal  o'  mine.  It  wa'nt  at 
all  in  my  mind,  some  four  or  live  vrars  gone— when  I 
brought  the  little  barefoot  mile  of  a  tiling  to  my  home, 
and  when  she  was  sick  and  e  en  a'm<>v»  dyin'  in  this  very 
room,  and  1  carried  her  in  my  arm-  nigh!  and  day —that 
her  turn  would  come  so  soon.  Ah!  1  lii  tie  thought  then, 
Miss  Kniily,  how  the  Lord  would,  lav  me  Iow---how  those 
same  feet  won  It  run  about  in  my  serv'ee,  how  her  bit  of  a 
hand  would  eome  in  tih;  dark  nights  to  smooth  my  pillow, 
and  I'd  go  about  daytimes  lean  in:.1,'  on  her  little  arm. 
Truly  God's  way-;  arc  not,  iike  our  ways,  nor  his  thoughts 
like  our  thoughts.'' 

"Oh,  Uncle  True! "  suid  Gerty,  "  I  don't,  do  much  for 
you,  I  wish  I  could  do  a.  great  deal  more.  J  wish  I  could 
make  you  strong  again." 

""  I  dare  say  you  do,  my  d.iHin',  hut  that  can't  be  in  this 
world;  you've  given  me  what's  far  better  than  strength  o' 
body.  Yes,  Miss  Emily,"  added  lie,  '•  it's  von  we  have  to 
thank  for  all  the  comfort,  we  enjoy.  1  loved  my  little 
birdie;  but  I  was  a  foolish  man,  and  I  should  ha'  spiled 
he*.  You  knew  better  \\li.it  was  for  her  good,  and  mine 
too.  You  made  her  \vlrit  she  is  now.  one  of  the  lambs  of 
Christ,  a  handmaiden  of  the  Lord.  If  ambody'd  told  me. 
six  months  ago,  that  I  should  become  a  poor  eripple,  and 
sit  in  my  chair  all  day.  and  no;,  know  who  was  n'oing  to 
furnish  a  living  for  me  or  birdie  either,  i  should  ha'  said  1 
ne\er  could  bear  my  lot  with  patience,  or  keep  up  any 
heart  at  all.  l>ut  I've  learned  a  lesson  from  this  little  one. 
When  1  first  got  so  I  could  speak,  after  the  shock,  and  tell 
what  was  in  mv  mind,  1  was  so  troubled  a'  thinkin'  of  my 
sad  case,  and  Gertv  w'th  tio'.odv  to  work  or  do  anything 
for  her,  that  I  .said,  :  \\hal  shall  we  do  now?  nhal  shall 
we  do  now?'  And  iiieii  she  whispered  in  mv  ear,  '  God 
will  take  care  of  us,  L'uci^  True!'  And,  when  1  forgot 


82  THE  LAMriJGHTEll 

the  savin',  find  asked,  '  "Who  will  feed  and  clothe  us  now!1 
she  said  again, 'The  Loi'il  will  provide.'  And,  in  my  deep- 
est distress,  when  cue  night  I  was  full  of  anxiety  about  mv 
child,  I  said  aloud,  'If  1  die.  who  will  take  care  of  (ierty  ?' 
the  little  thing  thai  1  supposed  was  sound  asleep  in  her 
bed,  laid  her  head  down  beside  me,  and  said,  '  I'ncle  True, 
when  I  was  turned  out  into  the  dark  street  all  alone,  and 
had  no  friends  nor  any  home,  my  heavenly  Father  sent 
you  to  me;  and  now.  if  lie  want.-  you  to  come  to  Him, 
and  is  not  ready  to  take  me  ton,  lie  will  send  somebody 
else  to  take  care  of  me  the  rest  of  my  life.'  After  that, 
]\liss  Emily,  I  gave  up  worry  in'  any  more.  Jler  words, 
and  the  blessed  teacliin's  of  the  Holy  Bonk  that,  she  reads 
every  dav,  have  sunk  deep  into  mv  heart, and  I'm  at  peace. 

"I  used  to  think  that,  if  1  lived  and  had  mv  strength 
spared  me,  (ierty  would  be  able  to  go  to  school  and  get  a 
sight  o'  larnin',  for  she  has  a  nateral  liking  for  it,  and  it 
comes  easy  to  her.  She's  but  a  slender  child,  and  1  never 
could  bear  the  thought  of  her  beiif  dri\  to  hard  work  for 
alivin';  she  don't  seem  made  for  it,  somehow.  I  hoped, 
when  she  grew  up,  to  see  her  a  schoolmistress,  like  5liss 
Browne,  or  somethiif  in  that  line;  but  I've,  done  bein' 
vexed  about  it  now.  1  know,  as  she  says,  it's  all  for  the 
best,  or  it  wouldn't  be." 

CJerly,  whose  face  had  been  hid  against  his  shoulder, 
looked  up,  and  said  bravely,  "  Oh,  Vnele  True,  I'm  sure  1 
can  do  almost  any  kind  of  work.  Mrs.  Sullivan  says  I  sew 
verv  well,  and  I  can  learn  to  be  a  milliner  or  a  dressmaker; 
that  isn't  bard  work.'" 

'•  Mr.  Flint,"  said  r'mily,  "would  yon  be  willing  to  trust 
your  child  with  me?  1  f  you  should  die,  would  you  feel  as 
if  she  were  safe  in  my  charge  ?  '' 

'•Miss  Kmilv,''  said  True,  "would  I  think  her  safe  in 
angel-keepin'  ?  I  should  believe  her  in  little  short  <>'  that, 
if  she  could  have  you  to  watch  o\er  her.''  , 

"Ob.  do  not  say  that,"  said  Miss  Kmily,  "or  I  shall  fear* 
to  undertake  so  solemn  a  trust.  1  know  that  mv  \\ant  01' 
i'il!'ht,  my  ill-health.  ;ind  m\  inexperience,  almost  unlit  me 
for  the  care  of  a  child  like  (lertv.  But,  since  \ou  ,'ippi'ose 
of  the  teaching  I  ha\e  already  Driven  her.  ;ind  are  so  kind 
as  to  think  a  Lrreat  de:d  better  of  me  than  1  dcsene.  1 


THE  LAUrnriJTTEn.  83 

know  that  in  case  of  your  death  I  will  gladly  take  Gerty 
to  my  home,  see  that  she  is  well  educated,  and,  as  long  as 
I  li\'e,  provide  for  and  take  care  of  her.  you  have  my 
solemn  assurance  (and  here  she  laid  her  hand  on  his)  that 
it  shall  he  done,  and  that  to  the  best  of  my  ability  I  will 
try  to  make  her  happy/' 

Gerty's  fh  .,t  impulse  was  to  rush  towards  Emily,  and 
fling  her  arms  around  her  neck:  but  she  was  arrested  in 
the  act,  for  she  observed  that  True  was  weeping  like  an 
infant.  In  an  instant  hi*  feehie  head  was  re.-ting  upon 
her  bosom;  her  ham!  was  wiping  awav  the  great  tears  that 
had  rushed  to  his  eyes.  It  was  an  t  asy  tusk,  for  thev  were 
tears  of  joy — of  a  joy  that  had  quite  unnerved  him  in  his 
present  state  of  prost  rat  ion  ami  weakness. 

The  proposal  was  so  utterly  foreign  to  his  thoughts  or 
expectations,  thai,  it  seemed  t"  him  a  hope  too  bright  to  be 
relied  upon;  aml,aftera  moment's  paiiM>,an  idea  occurring' 
to  him  which  seem.'-d  to  increase  his  doubts,  he  gave  utter- 
ance to  it  in  the  words—"  I'uf  your  father.  Miss  Emily! 
• — Mr.  Graham! — he's  part  i;'kler.  and  not  over-young  no\v. 
I'm  afeard  he  would;/'  like  a  liitle  gal  in  the  house.  ' 

"My  father  if  indulgent  to  int','-  replied  Emily:  "he 
would  not  object  to  an\  plan  !  had  at  heart,  and  I  have 
become  so  much  attached  to  Gertrude  that  she  would  bo 
of  great  use  and  comfort  to  me.  I  trust,  Mr.  Flint,  that 
you  will  recover  a  portion,  at  leas.:,  of  your  health  and 
strength,  ami  be  spared  to  her  for  many  a  year  yet;  but, 
in  order  that  you  may  in  no  case  feet  any  anxiety  on 
her  account,  I  take  this  opportunity  to  tell  you  that,  if  I 
should  outlive  you.  she  \\iil  be  sure  of  a  homo  with  me." 

"Ah,  Miss  Emilv!"  said  the  old  mail,  "  my  lime's  about 
out,  I  feel  right  -nre  o'  that  ;  ami,  since  you're  willin', 
you'll  soon  be  called  to  take  charge  on  h<T.  I  haven't  for- 
got how  tossed  I  was,  i:i  mv  mind  tin1  day  after  I  brought 
her  home  with  me.  with  thinkin'  that  p'raps  1  wasn't  fit 
to  undertake  the  care  of  such  a  little  tiling,  and  hadn't 
ways  to  make  her  comfortable;  and  then.  Miss  Emily,  do 
you  remember  you  said  10  me 
t  lie  Lord  will  bless  and 
a  time  since  that  you  was  a 
words  were,  what  I  thought 
heaven!  And  now  you  talk 
self;  ami  J.  that  am  just  goi;/  home  lu  God,  and  f< 


84  7777?  LAV 

I  read  his  ways  elearei  than  ever  afore.  7  fell  >/oir,  Miss 
Emily,  tliat  you're  doi  '  fiu'iil.  too;  ami,  if  the  Lord  re- 
wards you  as  in-  :  ..  me,  there'll  come  a,  time  when 
this  child  will  pay  \  •  i.cu  k  in  lovj  and  care  all  you  ever 
do  for  her. — (u-rt\  .'  " 

"She's  not  here,'''  sa  il  ".miiy;  "I  heard  her  run  into  her 
own  room.'' 

''Poor  birdie  !"  -aid  True,  '•  she  doesn't  like  to  hear  o' 
my  leavin'  her;  i'n  sad  In  think  how  some  day  soon  she'll 
almost  soh  her  hea;  >v<  r  iicr  old  uncle.  .Never  mind 

now!  i  wa-  Lp'o;n"  to  nid  h'  r  !>e.  ;;  m>od  child  to  you;  but  I 
think  she  will,  \\ithout  i  iddin";  and  1  can  sa\  TIIV  sav  to 
her  another  time.  ;.  i  .• . -d  i  -  .  ;.:v  dear  voun^  ladv;"— for 
Kmilv  had  r;-.';,  Lo  :  a  ...  c,  the  man-servant,  \\as 
uaitin^ai  th<  dou-1  for  her  '  ii  1  nc\er  .-  ec  you  airain, 
remcm'iitr  th,;  \.  >•  ;.n  old  man  so  h:i|>pv  th.it  he's 

nothing  in  JJMS  ivi'i'ld  !c!'t  '<•  v\  i  li  for;  atid  lhat  vou  carry 
wiili  \oii  a  dyin' man's  itest  i'ie.-sin',  and  his  ju-aver  that 
(ioil  niav  Lirant  SIK  h  jx.  rfeet  |>.'ace  io  vonr  !a.st  davs  as  now 
He  does  to  mine.''' 

That  evening,  when  Ti'ii"  had  al;v:id>,  niired  fo  rest,  and 
Certy  had  iinished  reading  aiond  i:i  her  little  liihle,  as  she 
nlways  did  at  hed-t  hue,  Tr:;e  called  hi  )'  to  him.  and  askrd 
her,  as  he  had  often  done  of  late,  to  repeat  his  favourite 
jirayer  for  the  siek.  Sue  ki;e!l  at  hi-  l>cd.-ide.  and  with  a. 
solemn  and  touching  earnest '  -  I'uiiilied  his  refpicst 

"  Mow.  darlin'.  Hie  prayer  !  ir  the  dyin*; — isn'i  there  such 
a  one  in  your  lit  t  N  ho  ,k  '•:  "' 

( iert  v  t  ren.liied.  Tii-M'i  ••  >  ^nell  a  praver,  a  beautiful 
one;  and  the  thouuhl  nl  child,  to  \vhom  the  idea  of  death 
vas  familiar,  km  w  ii  'iy  hear!  -bur  could  she  repeat  the 
words?  I'oulij  she  coii.m:1.;^]  her  vr>i(;e  ?  lier  whole 
frame  shook  with  limitation;  i.,'  !'::;!(•  True  v  i-hed  to 
hea.rir.it  would  he  ;i  i-oin!'i,i  to  him.  and  she  would  try. 
( 'oncentratin^ all  her  ones  •  !f-eommand,  she  liepin; 

and,  (raining  strength  as  sh  •  :  •  ed.  went  on  to  the 
end.  Once  or  t  \\  ice  her  '.  ui<  hut  with  ne\\  elTort 

she  sr.eeeeded,  in  s'tit"  .  .  l.unidies  in  her  t  hroat ; 

aiui  lier  vt-ieo  sound-  :--•'':  a  .  .tlial  ( "n;  le  Trne'ft 

<!e\  ot  ional  sj  ••  •  v  the  1  nought  of 

the  u'i  ri's  .  .  '  i  !:;iie|  v,  l,e  (••  i|;!d  not  hear 

Jji •','.  her  heart  ln-tit  a;  1 1. 1  •  '  :  ami  [  hreatened  io  bu rs.', 

Sin;  did    not   riit   at   Lho  cv/iiuluciuii  oi  the   jiraver— sib.% 


THE  LAMi'Lif.'lI'fRR.  85 

could  not — but  reinained  kneeling,  hoi  head  buried  in  the 
bedclothes.  For  a  few  moments  there  was  ;i  solemn  still- 
ness in  the  room;  then  the  old  m;ui  laid  Jii.s  liund  upon  her 
hand. 

She  looked  up. 

"You  love  Miss  Emilv.  don't  von,  birdie?" 

"  Yes,  indeed." 

"You'll  be  a  good  child  to  her  when  I'm  gone?" 

"  0.  Uncle  True!"  sobbed  (Jerty,  "  ym  mustn't  leavfi 
me  !  I  can't  live  without  you,  dc.tir  Unelu  True  !  " 

"It  is  God's  will  to  take  inc.  (ierty:  ile  has  always  been 
good  to  us,  and  we  mustn't  doubt  Him  now.  Miss  Emily 
can  do  more  for  you  than  I  could,  and  you'll  be  ver)  happy 
witli  her." 

"No,  I  shan't — I  shan't  ever  be  happy  again  in  this 
world!  I  never  was  happy  until  1  came  to  you:  and  now, 
if  you  die,  I  wish  1  could  die  too!  '' 

"You  mustn't  wish  that,  darlhr:  yon  are  young,  and 
must  try  to  do  good  in  the  world,  and  bide  your  time.  I'm 
an  old  man,  and  only  a  trouble  row." 

"No,  no,  Uncle  True  ! ''  said  (>ertv,  earnestly:  "you  are 
not  a  trouble — you  never  could  he  a  trouble!  1  wish  I'd 
never  been  so  much  trouble  to  you." 

"  So  far  from  that,  birdie,  (iod  knows  you've  long  been 
my  heart's  delight!  It  only  pains  me  now  to  think  that 
you're  a  spendin'  all  your  time,  and  shivin'  hi/re  at.  home, 
instead  of  goin'  to  school,  as  you  used  to;  but,  0  !  we  all 
depend  on  each  other  so  !— ii:\-,i,  on  (iod.  and  then  on  each 
other  !  And  that  'minds  me,  (irrty.  of  what  I  was  goin' 
to  say  1  feel  as  if  the  Lord  would  c.-il!  me  soon,  sooner 
than  you  think  for  now;  and,  ar  IM'-t,  you'll  cry,  and  be 
sore  vexed,  no  doubt;  but.  Miss  Krnlly  will  take  you  with 
her, and  she'll  tell  you  blessed  things  to  comfort  you;—  how 
we  shall  all  meet  again  and  he  happy  in  that  world  where 
there's  no  partin's;  and  \\  iliie  Ti  do  everything  he  can 
to  help  you  in  your  sorrer:  and  in  time  you'll  be  able 
to  smile  again.  At  first,  and  p'raps  I'-ir  a  lung  time.  (Jerty, 
you'll  be  a  care  to  Miss  Kmilv.  :\\«\  she'll  have  to  cio  a  deal 
for  you  in  the  way  o'  gchoolin'.  ciothin'.  and  so  on;  and 
what  I  want  to  tell  yo'i  i-,  that  rm-io  True  expects  you'l] 
be  as  good  a?  can  be,  and  do  just  what  Miss  Kmily  says; 
and,  bv-and-by,  mav  be,  when  v<  u':e  l»iggfr  and  oMer, 
you'll  be  able  to  do  .some!. ii in'  loj-  hci  hhe'.s  blind,  you 


86  THK  LA\ 

know,  and  yon  must  he  eyes  for  her;  and  she's  not  over 
strong,  and  you  must  lend  a  helpin'  hand  to  her  weakness, 
just  as  you  do  to  mine;  and,  if  you're  good  and  natient, 
God  will  mak'-  your  heart  light  at  last,  while  you're  only 
try  in'  to  make  other  folks  happy;  and  when  you're  sad 
troubled  (for  everybody  is  sometimes),  then  think  of  old 
Uncle  True,  and  how  he  u-ed  to  say, 'Cheer  up,  birdie, 
for  I'm  of  the  'pinion  'twill  all  come  out  right  at  last.' 
There,  don't  feel  bad  about  it  ;  go  to  bed,  darlin',  and  to- 
morrow we'll  have  a  nice  walk— and  Willie's  gohr  with  us, 
you  know.'' 

Gerty  tried  to  cheer  up.  for  True's  sake,  amd  went  to 
bed.  She  did  not  .sleep  for  some  hours;  but  when,  at  last, 
she  did  fall  into  a  quiet  slumber,  it  continued  unbroken 
until  morning. 

She  dreamed  that  morning  was  already  come;  that  she 
and  Uncle  True  and  Willie  were  taking  a  pleasant  walk; 
that  Uncle  True  was  strong  and  well  again  his  eye  bright, 
his  step  firm,  and  Willie  and  herself  laughing  and  happy. 

And,  while  she  dreamed  the  beautiful  dream,  little 
thinking  that  her  first  friend  and  she  -should  no  longer 
tread  life's  paths  together,  the  messenger  came — a  gentle, 
noiseless  messenger — and,  in  the  still  night,  while  the  world 
was  alee]),  took  the  soul  of  good  old  True,,  and  carried  it 
home  to  God  1 


CHAPTER  XV. 

A    XKW    HOME. 

/Two  months  have  passed  since  Trueman  Flint's  death, 
and  Gertrude  has  for  a  week  been  domesticated  in  Mr. 
Graham's  family.  Ii  was  through  the  newspaper  that 
Emily  first  heard  of  the  little  girl's  sudden  loss,  and,  ac- 
quainting her  fatti'1)1  with  her  plans  concerning  the  child, 
she  found  no  opposition  to  fear  from  him.  He  reminded 
her,  however,  of  the  inconvenience  that  would  attend  Get- 
trude's  coming  to  them  at  once,  as  they  wvro  soon  to  start 
on  a  visit  to  some  distani  relatives,  and  would  not  return 
until  near  the  time  to  re'no1  e  Lo  the  city  for  the  winter. 


TIIK  r.A\ri*LnntTnii.  87 

Emily  felt  the  force  of  this  objection;  for,  although  Mrs. 
Ellis  would  be  at  home  during  their  absence,  she  knew  that 
she  would  he  a  very  uuiiL  person  to  console  Gertrude  in 
her  time  of  sorrow. 

This  thought  troubled  Emily;  and  she  regretted  much 
that  this  unusual  journey  should  take  place  so  inoppor- 
tunely. But  there  was  no  help  for  it  ;  for  Mr.  Graham's 
plans  were  arranged,  unless  she  would  make  Gertrude's 
corning,  at  the  very  outset,  disagreeable.  She  started  for 
town,  therefore,  the  next  morning,  quite  undecided  what 
course  to  pursue. 

The  day  was  Sunday,  but  Emily's  errand  was  one  of 
charity  and  love,  and  would  not  admit  of  delay;  and  an 
hour  before  the  time  for  morning  service  Mrs.  Sullivan  saw 
Mr.  Graham's  carriage  stop  at  the  door.  She  ran  to  meet 
Emily,  and  guided  her  into  her  neat  parlour  to  a  comfort- 
able seat,  placed  in  her  lunul  a  fan  (for  the  weather  was 
very  warm),  and  then  told  her  how  thankful  she  was  to  see 
her,  and  how  sorry  she  felt  that  Gertrude  was  not  at  home. 
Emily  wonderingly  asked  where  Gertrude  was,  and  learned 
that  she  was  out  walking  with  Willie.  A  succession  of  in- 
quiries followed,  and  a  touching  story  was  told  by  Mrs. 
Sullivan  of  Gertrude's  agony  of  grief,  and  the  fears  she  had 
entertained  lest  the  girl  would  die  of  sorrow. 

"I  couldn't  do  anything  with  her  myself,"  said  she. 
"There  she  sat,  dav  after  day.  last  week,  on  her  little  stool, 
by  Uncle  T rue's  easy-chair,  with  her  head  on  the  cushion, 
and  I  couldn't  get  her  to  move  or  eat  a  thing.  She  didn't 
appear  to  hear  me  when  1  spoke  to  her;  and  if  I  tried  to 
move  her,  she  didn't  struggle,  but  she  seemed  just  like  a 
dead  weight  in  my  hands:  and  1  couldn't  hear  to  make  her 
come  away  into  my  room,  though  1  knew  it  would  change 
the  scene,  and  be  better  for  her.  If  it  hadn't  been  for 
Willie,  I  don't  know  what  1  should  have  done,  I  was  get- 
ting so  worried  about  the  poor  child;  but  he  knows  how  to 
manage  her  better  than  I  do.  When  he  is  at  home  we  get 
along  very  well,  for  he  takes  her  right  up  in  his  arms  (he's 
very  strong,  and  she's  as  light  as  a  leather),  and  either 
carries  her  into  some  other  room,  or  nut  in  the  yard;  and 
he  contrives  to  cheer  her  wonderfully.  He  persuades  her 
to  eat,  and  in  the  evenings  when  he  comes  home  from  the 
store,  takes  long  walks  with  her.  Last  evening  they  went 
over  Chelsea  Bridge,  where  it  was  cool  and  pleasant;  and 


88  T1JV.   LAMPLIGHTER 

I  suppose  he  diverted  her  attention  and  amused  her,  foi 
she  came  home  brighter  than  I've  seen  her,  and  quite  tired. 
I  got  her  to  go  to  bed  in  my  room,  and  she  slept  soundly 
all  night,  so  that  she  really  looKs  like  herself  today. 
They've  gone  out  again  this  morning,  and,  being  Sunday, 
and  Willie  at  home  all  day,  I've  no  doubt  he'll  keep  her 
spirits  up,  if  anybody  can." 

"  Willie  shows  very  good  judgment,'''  said  Emily,  "  in 
trying  to  change  the  scene,  for  her,  and  divert  her  thoughts. 
I'm  thankful  she  has  had  such  kind  friends.  I  promised 
Mr.  Flint  she  should  have  a  home  with  me  when  he  was 
taken  away,  and  not  knowing  of  his  death  until  now,  I  con- 
sider it  a  great  favour  to  myself,  as  well  as  her,  that  you 
have  taken  such  excellent  care  of  her.  I  felt  sure  you  have 
been  all  goodness,  or  it  would  have  given  me  great  regret 
that  I  had  not  heard  of  True's  death  before." 

"  0,  Miss  Emily! ''said  Mrs.  Sullivan,  "  Gertrude  is  so 
dear  to  us,  and  we  have  suffered  so  much  in  seeing  her 
suffer,  that  it  was  a  kindness  to  ourselves  to  do  all  we 
could  to  comfort  her.  Why,  J  think  she  and  Willie  could 
not  love  each  other  better  if  they  were  own  brother  and 
sister:  and  Willie  and  uncle  True  were  great  friends! 
indeed,  we  shall  all  miss  him  very  much.  My  old  father 
doesn't  say  much  about  it,  but  1  can  see  he's  very  down- 
hearted." 

Mrs.  Sullivan  now  informed  Emily  that  a  cousin  of 
hers,  a  farmer's  wife,  living  about  twenty  miles  from 
Boston,  had  invited  them  all  10  pass  a  week  or  two  with 
her  at  the  farm;  and,  as  \\illie  was  now  to  enjoy  his 
usual  summer  vacation,  they  proposed  accepting  the  in- 
vitation. She  spoke  of  Gertrude's  accompanying  them, 
and  enlarged  upon  the  advantage  it  would  be  to  her  to 
breathe  the  country  air,  and  ramble  about  the  iields  and 
woods,  after  all  the  fatigue  and  confinement  she  had  en- 
dured. 

Emily,  finding  that  Gertrude  would  be  a  welcome  gueflt, 
cordially  approved  of  ihe  visit,  and  also  arranged  with 
Mrs.  Sullivan  that  sin-  should  remain  under  her  care  until 
Mr.  Graham  removed  in  Boston  for  the  winter.  She  was 
t'nen  obliged  to  leave,  \vithoul  vailing  for  Gertrude's  re- 
turn, t  liMii;_|li  she  jrft  many  a  kind  message  for  her,  and 
placed  in  Mrs.  Sullivan's  hands  a  sutlicient  sum  of  money 
to  provide  for  all  her  wants. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  89 

Gertrude  went  into  the  country,  and  abundance  of 
novelty,  country  fare,  healthful  exercise,  and  kindness  and 
sympathy,  brought  the  colour  into  her  cheek,  and  calm- 
ness and  happiness  into  her  heart.  Soon  after  the  Sulli- 
van's return  from  their  excursion,  the  Grahams  removed 
to  the  city,  and  Gertrude  had  now  been  with  them  about 
a  week.  '•'  Are  you  still  standing  at  the  window,  Ger- 
trude. \\hat  are  you  doing,  dear  ?  " 

"  I'm  watching  to  see  the  lamps  lit,  Miss  Emily." 

"  But  they  will  not  be  lit  at  all.  The  moon  will  rise  at 
eight  o'clock,  and  light  the  streets  sufficiently  for  the  rest 
of  the  night." 

"  I  don't  mean  the  street-lamps." 

"What  do  you  mean,  my  child?"  said  Emily,  coming 
towards  the  window,  and  lightly  resting  a  hand  on  Ger- 
trude's shoulders. 

"  I  mean  the  stars,  dear  Miss  Emily.  Oh,  how  I  wish 
you  could  see  them,  too  !  " 

"  Are  they  very  bright  ?  " 

"  0,  they  are  beautiful!  and  there  are  so  many!  The 
sky  is  as  full  as  it  can  be/1' 

•''  How  well  I  remember  when  I  used  to  stand  at  this 
very  window,  and  look  at  them  as  you  are  doing  now!  It 
seems  to  me  as  if  1  saw  them  this  moment,  I  know  so  well 
how  they  look." 

"I  love  the  stars — all  of  them,"  said  Gertrude;  "but 
my  own  star  1  love  the  best." 

"  Which  do  you  call  yours  ?  " 

"  That  splendid  one  over  the  church-steeple;  it  shines 
into  my  room  every  night,  and  looks  me  in  the  face. 
Miss  Emily  (and  she  spoke  in  a  whisper),  it  seems  to  mo 
as  if  that  star  were  lit  on  purpose  for  me.  I  think  Undo 
True  lights  it  every  night.  J  always  feel  as  it'  he  wero 
smiling  up  there,  and  saying,  '  See.  Gerty,  I'm  lighting  tho 
lam})  for  you.'  Dear  Uncle  True!  Miss  Emily,  do  you 
think  he  loves  me  now  ?  " 

"I  do,  indeed,  Gertrude;  and  I  think,  if  you  make  him 
an  example,  and  try  to  live  as  good  and  patient  a  life  as 
he  did,  that  lie  will  really  be  a  lamp  to  your  feet,  and  as 
bright  a  light  to  your  path  as  if  his  face  were  shining 
down  upon  you  through  the  star." 

"1  was  patient  and  good  when  I  lived  with  him;  at 
least,  I  almost  always  was;  and  I'm  good  when  I'm  with 


90  THE  LA 

you  \  but  I  don't  like  Mrs.  Kills.  She  tries  to  plague  ma, 
and  she  makes  me  angry,  and  I  don't,  know  what  1  do  or 
KIV.  I  did  not  mean  to  ho  impertinent,  to  her  to-day,  and 
I  wish  J  hadn't,  slammed  the  door;  hut  how  could  1  help 
it,  Miss  Kniilv,  when  she  told  me  hefoiv  Mr.  (iraham,  that 
I  lore  u]>  the  last,  night's  Juitr//<i/,  and  1  lemur  that,  I  did 
ot.  Jt  was  an  old  paper  that  she  saw  me  tying  your 
'  '. ippcrs  up  in,  and  J  am  almost  sure  that  she  lit  the  lihrary 
ire  with  the  ,lonnial  herself;  hut  Mr  (iraham  will 
always  think  I  did  it." 

"  I  have  no  doubt,  Gertrude,  that  you  had  reason  to  feel 
provoked,  and  I  believe  you  when  you  say  that  you  wero 
not  to  blame  for  the  loss  of  the  newspaper.  But  re- 
member, my  dear,  that  there  is  no  merit  in  being  patient 
and  good-tempered,  when  there  is  nothing  to  irritate  yon. 
I  want  you  to  learn  to  bear  even  injustice,  without  losing 
your  self-control.  Mrs.  Kills  has  been  here  a  number  of 
years;  she  has  had  everything  her  own  way,  and  is  iiot 
used  to  young  people.  She  felt,  when  you  came,  that  it 
was  bringing  new  care  and  trouble  upon  her,  and  it  is  not 
strange  that  when  things  go  wrong  she  should  sometimes 
think  you  in  fault.  She  is  a  very  faithful  woman,  very 
kind  and  attentive  to  me,  and  very  important  to  my 
father.  Jt  will  make  me  unhappy  if  1  have  any  reason  to 
fear  that  you  and  she  will  not  live  pleasantly  together." 

"I  do  not  want  to  make  you  unhappy;  1  do  not  want 
to  be  a  trouble  to  anybody,"  said  (Jertrude,  with  some  ex- 
citement; "I'll  go  away!  I'll  go  oil'  somewhere,  where 
you  will  never  see  me  again!" 

"  Gertrude!  "  said  Kmily,  seriously  and  sadly.  Her 
hands  were  still  upon  the  young  girl's  shoulders,  and,  as 
she  spoke,  she  turned  her  round,  and  brought  her  face  to 
faee  with  herself.  "  Gertrude,  do  you  wish  to  leave  your 
blind  friend?  Do  you  not  love  me?''7  So  touchingly 
grieved  was  the  expression  of  the  countenance  that  met 
her  gaze,  that  Gertrude's  proud  spirit  was  subdued.  She 
threw  her  arms  round  Kmily's  neck,  and  exclaimed,  ".No! 
dear  Miss  Kmily,  I  would  not  leave  you  for  all  the  wor'd! 
I  will  do  just  as  you  wish.  I  will  never  be  angry  with 
Mrs.  Kills  again  for  your  sake." 

"  Not  for  w_y  sake,  Gertrude,"  replied  Emily,  "  for  your 
own  sake;  for  the  sake  cf  duty  and  of  God.  A  few  years 
ago  I  bhoiild  not  have  expected  you  to  have  been  pleasant 


TllK  LAMM.HUTTKH  91 

and  amiable  towards  anyone  whom  you  felt  ill-treated  you; 
hut  now  that  you  know  .-<>  \\ell  what  is  right;  now  that 
you  aro  familial1  with  I  he  life  of  that,  blessed  Master  u  ho, 
when  he  was  reviled,  re,viied  not  sixain;  now  that  you  iiave 
learned  faithfully  to  fulfil  so  many  important  duties;  I 
had  hoped  that  von  h;id  learned  also  to  he  forbearing 
under  the  most  Irving  circumstances.  Hut  do  not  think, 
'uertrude,  because,  I  remind  you  when  you  have  done 
wrong  1  despair  of  your  becoming  one  day  all  I  wish  to 
see  you.  What  you  are  experiencing  now  being  a  new 
trial,  you  must,  bring  new  strength  to  hear  upon  it;  and  [ 
iiave  such  confidence  in  YOU  as  to  believe  that,  knowing 
my  wishes,  you  will  try  to  behave  properly  to  Mrs.  Ellis 
on  all  occasions." 

"  1  will,  Miss  Kmily,  I  will.  I'll  not  answer  lier  back 
when  she's  ugly  to  me,  if  1  have  to  bite  my  lips  to  keep 
them  together." 

"(),  1  do  not  believe  it  will  be  so  bad  as  that,"  said 
Kmily,  smiling.  "Mrs.  Kllis's  manner  is  rather  rough, 
but  you  will  get  used  to  her.'' 

''.Just  then  a  voice;  was  heard  in  the  entry,  "To  see 
.I//.™  /•'//////  IiYitlly:  Well,  .)//.s.v  Find  is  in  Miss 
.Kmilv's  room.  She's  going  to  entertain  company,  is 
shi};'"'  Gertrude  coloured,  for  it  was  Mrs.  Kllis's  voice, 
and  her  tone  was  very  derisive1.  Kmily  stepped  to  the 
door,  and  opened  it.—-"  Mrs  Kills.'' 

"  What  say,   Kmily  ?  " 

"  Is  there  anyone   below  ?  " 

"  Yes;  a  young  man  wants  to  see  Gertrude;  it's  that 
young  Sullivan,  1  believe." 

"  Willie!''"  exclaimed  Gerl  rude,  starting  forward. 

"You  can  go  down  and  see  him,  Gertrude/'  said  Kmily, 
*'(!ome  back  here  when  he's  gone;  and,  Mrs.  Kllis,  I  wish 
you  would  step  in  and  put  my  room  a  little  in  order.  I 
think  you  will  find  pleniv  of  pieces  for  your  rag- bag  about 
the  carpet — Miss  Randolph  always  scatters  so  many  when 
she  is  engaged  with  her  dressmaking/* 

Mrs.  Kllis  made  her  collection,  and  then,  seating  hersel. 
on  a  couch  at  the  side  of  the  fire-place,  with  her  coloured 
rugs  in  one  hand  and  the  white  in  the  other,  commenced 
speaking  or  Gertrude. 

"  \\hat  arc  you  going  to  do  with  her,  Emily?"  said 
she;  " send  her  to  school  ?  " 


92  2777?  LAMPIJCllTTER 

"  Yes.     She  will  go  to  Mr.  \\V>  this  winter/* 
"  Why!     isn't  th;it  u  \erv  expensive  school  fora  child 
like  her  ?  " 

"It  is  expensive,  certainly;  but  I  wish  her  to  be  with 
the  best  teacher  I  know  of.  and  father  makes  no  objection 
to  the  terms.  He  thinks  as  I  do.  that  if  we  undertake  to  lit 
her  to  instruct  others,  she  must  be  thoroughly  taught  her-, 
self.  1  talked  with  him  about  it,  the  first  night  after  we 
came  into  town  for  the  season,  and  he  agreed  with  me 
that  we  had  better  put  her  out.  to  learn  a  trade  at  onc«, 
than  half-educate,  make  a  tine  ladv  of  her.  and  so  unfit 
her  for  anything.  He  was  willing  I  should  manage  the 
matter  as  I  pleased,  and  1  resolved  to  send  her  to  Mr. 
AV.'s.  So  she  will  remain  with  us  for  the  present.  I  wish 
to  keep  her  with  me  as  long  as  I  can,  not  only  because  I 
am  fond  of  the  child,  but  she  is  delicate  and  sensitive;  and 
now  that  she  is  so  sad  about  old  Mr.  .Flint's  death,  I  think 
we  ou.o'ht  to  do  all  we  can  to  make  her  happv;  don't  you, 
Mrs.  Ellis?" 

"I  always  calculate  to  do  my  duty,"  said  Mrs.  Ellis, 
rather  stiffly.  "  Where  is  she  going  to  tleep  when  we  get 
settled  ?  " 

"  Jn  the  little  room  at  the  end  of  the  passage." 

"Then,  where  shall  1  keep  the  linen  press?" 

"Can't  it  stand  in  the  back  entry?  J  should  think  the 
space  between  the  windows  would  accommodate  it." 

"I  suppose  it  must, "said  Mrs.  Kllis,  tlouncing  out  of  the 
room,  and  muttering  to  herself.  "  evervthing  turned  topsy- 
turvv  for  the  sake  of  that  little  upstart  !" 

Mrs.  Kllis  was  vexed.  She  had  long  had  her  own  way  in 
the  management  of  all  household  mutters  at  Mr.  (iraham's, 
and  had  become  rather  tyrannical.  She  was  capable, 
met hodicul,  and  neat;  accustomed  to  a  small  family,  and 
now  for  manv  years  quite  'UiltnriixtnMwl  to  children;  (ier- 
trude  was  in  her  eyes  an  intruder — one  who  must  of  ne- 
cessity be  in  mischief,  continually  deranging  her  most  cher- 
ished plans. 

She  saw  in  the  new  inmate  a  formidable  rival  to  herself 
in  Miss  Graham's  affections;  und  Mrs.  Kllis;  could  not 
brook  the  idea  of  being  second  in  the  regard  of  Miss 
Emily,  who,  owing  to  her  peculiar  misfortune,  and  to  her 
delicate  health,  had  Ion::  been  her  -pc"ial  charge,  and  foi 
sho  felt  the  greatest  tenderness.  Owinir  to  these 


THE  LAMPLUUITER.  93 

circumstances,  Mr?.  Ellis  was  Tint,  favourably  disposed 
towards  Gertrude;  and  Gertrude  was  not  yet  prepared  tG 
love  Mrs.  Ellis  very  cordially. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

WHO    AKK    HAPPY? 

EMILY  sat  alone  in  her  room.  Mr.  (indium  had  gone  Ic 
a  meeting  of!  bank-directors.  Mrs.  Mill.- was  stoning  raisins 
in  the  dining-room.  Willie  detained  Gertrude  in  tli<>  little 
library,  and  Emily  was  indulging  in  a  long  train  of  medi- 
tation. Her  head  rested  on  her  hand:  her  face,  usually  so 
plaeid,  was  sal;  and  her  whole  appejiramv  denoted  de- 
spondency. As  thought  pressed  upon  thought,  and  past, 
s-orrows  arose  in  quick  succession,  her  head  gradually  sank 
upon  the  cushions  of  the  conch  where  she  sat,  and  tears 
slowly  trickled  through  her  lingers.  Suddenly  a  hand  was 
laid  softly  upon  hers.  She  gaye  a  quick  start,  as  sho 
always  did  when  surprised,  for  her  unusual  pro-occupation 
of  mind  had  made  Gertrude's  approaching  step  unheard. 
"Is  anything  the  matter,  Miss  Kmily?"  said  Gertrude 
"  Do  you  like  best  to  he  alone,  or  may  i  stav  ?" 

The  sympathetic  tone,  the  delicacy  of  the  child's  ques- 
tion, touched  Emily.  She  drew  her  towards  her,  saying, 
as  she  did  so,  "  0,  yes,  stay  with  me  ;"  then  observing,  a  a 
she  passed  an  arm  round  the  little  girl,  that  she  trembled, 
and  seemed  violently  agitated,  she  added,"  I'm  what  is  the 
matter  with  you,  Gerty  ?  What  makes  you  tremble  and 
sob  so  ?  " 

At  this,  Gertrude  broke  forth  with,  "  0.  Miss  Emily,  1 
thought  you  were  crying  when  I  came  in,  and  I  hoped  you 
would  let  me  come  and  cry  with  you;  for  I'm  so  miserable 
1  can't  do  anything  else.'' 

Calmed  herself  by  the  agitation  of  flic  child.  Kmilv  tried 
to  discover  the  cause  of  this  new  aniietinn.  Willie  had 
been  to  tell  her  that  lie  wn-  going  away,  'join'/  nut  of  the 
country;  as  Gertrude  e.x  pressed  it,  to  the  other  end  of  the 
world — to  India.  Mr.  (Union  was  interested  in  a  mercan- 
tile house  in  Calcutta,  and  had  ottered  \\  illium  the  most 


04  THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 

favourable  terms  to  2:0  abroad  as  clerk  to  the  establishment. 
The  prospect  was  far  better  than  lie  could  hope  for  by  re- 
maining at  home;  the  salary  was  snllieient  to  defray  all  his 
own  expenses, and  provide  for  the  wants  of  those  who  were 
now  becoming  more  dependent  upon  him.  The  chance, 
too,  of  future  advancement  was  great  ;  though  the  young1 
man's  affectionate  heart  clung  Fondly  to  home  and  friends, 
there  was  no  hesitation  in  his  mind  as  to  the  course  which 
both  duty  and  interest  prompted,  lie  agreed  to  the  pro- 
posal, and  whatever  his  own  struggles  were  at  the  thought 
of  live,  or  perhaps  ten  years'  banishment,  he  kept  them 
manfully  to  himself,  and  talked  cheerfully  about  it  to  his 
mother  and  grand  Fat  her. 

"  Miss  Emily/'  said  (iertrude,  when  she  had  acquainted 
her  with  I  he  news,  "how  can  I  bear  to  have  Willie  go 
away?  How  can  I  live  without  Willie!"  He  is  so  kind, 
and  loves  me  so  much  !  He  was  alwavs  better  than  any 
brothel',  and.  since  Uncle  True  died,  he  has  done  every- 
thing in  the  world  for  me.  1  believe  I  could  not  have 
borne  Uncle  True's  death  if  it  had  not  been  for  Willie; 
and  now  how  can  I  let  him  go  away  ?" 

"It  is  hard,  (iertrude,"  said  Emily,  kindly,  "'but  it  is  no 
doubt  for  his  ad\antagc:  you  must  try  and  ihink  of  that." 

"I  know  it,"  replied  (iertrude-- "  1  suppose  it  is;  but, 
Miss  Emily,  you  do  nor  know  how  1  love  Willie.  We  were 
so  much  together;  and  there  were  only  us  two.  and  we 
thought  everything  of  each  other;  he  was  so  much  older 
than  I.  and  alwavs  took  such  good  care  of  me.  0,  I  don't 
think  you  have  any  idea  what  friends  we  are!" 

(Jertrude  had  unconsciously  touched  a  chord  that  vi- 
brated through  Kmiiy's  whole  frame.  Her  voice  trembled 
as  she  answered.  "  /,  (iertrude!  //'</  l>'non'}  my  child!  i 
know  better  than  you  imagine,  how  Hear  he  niusl  be 
you.  I,  too,  had—  "  then  she  paused  ahri; 
were  a  few  moment.-'  silence,  during  whie 


l\\'  111 

what    a    Me.-si 

often  hear  From  him,  and  when   lie  uau  ha\e  constant  news 
of  his  friends..'' 


TllK  LAMVLHJHTER.  05 

"Yes,"  replied  Gerty;  "he  says  he  shall  write  to  me  and 
his  mother  very  often.'" 

"  Then,  too.''  said  Emily,  "'you  ought  to  rejoice  at  the 
good  opinion  Mr.  Clinton  must,  have  of  Willie:  the  confi- 
dence lie  must  feel  in  his  uprightness,  to  place  in  him  so 
much  trust.  I  think  that  is  very  flattering." 

"  So  it  is,"  said  Gerty;  "  I  did  not  think  of  that." 

"And  you  have  lived  so  happily  together/'  continued 
EmilT,  "and  will  part  in  such  perfect  peace.  <)  Gertrude! 
Gertrude!  such  a.  partingas  that  should  not  make  you  sad; 
there  are  so  much  worse  things  in  the  world.  .Be  patient, 
my  dear  child;  do  your  duty,  and  perhaps  there  will  some 
day  bo  a  happy  meeting,  t  hat  will  repay  you  for  all  you 
suffer  in  the  separat  ion." 

Emily's  voice  trembled  as  she  uttered  the  last  few  words. 
Gertrude's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  friend  with  a  puxxled 
expression.  "Miss  Emily,"  .-aid  she,  "1  begin  to  think 
that  everything  has  trouble/'' 

'•  Certainly,  Gertrude;  can  you  doubt  it  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  use  to  think  so.  I  knew  I  had.  but  I  thought 
other  folks  were  more  fortunate.  I  fancied  that  rich  peo- 
ple were  all  verv  happv  :  and,  though  you  are  blind,  and 
that  is  a  dreadful  thing.  I  supposed  you  were  used  to  it; 
and  you  always  looked  so  pleasant  and  quiet,  I  took  it  for 
granted  nothing  ever  vexed  you  now.  And  then,  Willie! 
—  I  believed  once  that  nothing  could  make  him  look  sad, 
he  was  always  so  gay;  but  when  he  hadn't  anyplace,]  saw 
him  really  cry;  and  then,  when  Uncle  True  died,  and  now 
again  to-night,  when  he  was  telling  me  about  going  awav, 
he  could  hardly  speak,  he  felt  so  badly.  And  so,  Miss 
Emily,  since  I  see  that  you  and  Willie  have  troubles,  and 
that  tears  will  come,  though  you  trv  to  keep  them  back.  I 
think  the  world  is  full  of  trials,  and  that,  every  one  (jets  a 
share/"' 

"'It  is  the  lot  of  humanity.  Gertrude,  and  we  must  not 
expect  it  to  be  ot  herwise." 

"  Then,  who  can  be  happ 

"  Thos.e,  oiil v,  my  child, 
t  hose  who,  in  I  lie  <e\  cn-st  a 
i  MLr  Fat  her,  ,it:d  ohei  I  ien  I  ! 


is   hard,  my  child,  and    therefore  few  in  this  world 


90  THK  LAMPLlUJlTER 

can  rightly  be  called  happy:  but  if,  even  in  the  midst  of 
our  distress,  \ve  ean  look  to  (I<><1  in  faith  and  love,  we  niav, 
when  the  world  is  dark  around,  experience  a  peace  that  is 
a  foretaste  of  heaven." 

Willie's  departure  was  sudden,  and  M"rs.  Sullivan  had 
only  a  week  in  which  to  make  those  arrangements  which  a 
mother's  thought  fulness  deems  necessary.  Her  hands  were 
therefore  full  of  work,  and  (iertv,  whom  Kmily  at  once  re- 
linquished for  the  short  time  previous  to  the  vessel's  sail- 
ing, was  of  great  assistance  to  her.  Willie  was  very  busy 
during  the  day,  but  was  always  with  them  in  the  evening. 

On  one  occasion,  he  returned  home  about  dusk,  and  his 
mother  and  grand  fat  her  bot  h  being  out,  and  Uertrnde  hav- 
ing just  put  aside  her  sewing,  he  said  to  her.  "Come, 
fJerty.  if  you  are  not  afraid  of  taking  cold,  come  and  sit 
on  the  door-step  with  me,  as  we  used  to  do  in  old  times; 
there  will  be  no  more  such  warm  days  as  this,  and  we  may 
never  have  another  chance  to  sit  there,  and  watch  the 
moon  rise  above  the  old  house  at  the  corner.'' 

<v  ( )  Willie! '"  said  (Jertrnde,  "  do  not  speak  of  our  never* 
heing  together  in  the  old  place  again!  J  cannot  bear  the 
thought;  there  is  not  a  house  in  Boston  I  could  ever  lovo 
as  I  do  t  his.'' 

"  Nor  J,''  replied  Willie:  "but  there  is  one  chance  in  a 
hundred  if  1  should  be  gone  five  years  that  there  would  not 
he  a  block  of  brick  stores  in  this  spot  when  I  come  to  look 
for  it.  J  wish  I  did  not  think  so,  for  J  shall  have  many  a 
longing  after  the  old  home." 

"  Hut  what  will  become  of  your  mother  and  grandfather 
if  this  house  is  torn  down  ?  " 

"It  is  not  easv  to  tell,  (Jertv,  what  will  become  of  any 
of  us  bv  that  time:  but,  if  there  is  any  necessitv  for  their 
moving,  1  hope  I  shall  be,  able  to  provide  a  better  house 
than  this  for  t  hem." 

"  You  won't  be  here.  Willie." 

"  1  know  it.  but  I  shall  be  always  hearing  from  you.  and 
M'e  ran  talk  about  it  bv  letters,  and  arrange  everything. 
The  idea  of  anv  such  changes,  after  all."  added  lie,  "  is 
what  troubles  me  most  in  going  awav:  I  think  thev  would 
mi.-.-  me  and  need  me  so  mmdi.  (iertrude,  you  will  take 
car-  i-!'  :  hem.  won't  \  »u  !' 

"  I!"  said  Cirrt  rude,  in  amazement ;  "  such  a  child  as  1! 
—what  can  I  do  ';" 


THE  LAMP L1C, HTKll.  07 

"  If  I  am  gone  five  or  ten  years,  Gerty,  you  will  nor  be  a 
child  all  that  time,  and  a  woman  is  often  ;i  better  depend- 
ence than  a  man,  especially  .such  a  ,1:001!  brave  woman  as 
you  will  be.  I  have  not,  forgotten  tin.-,  beautiful  care  you 
took  of  Uncle  True;  and,  whenever  1  imagine  grandfather 
or  mother  old  and  helpless,  I  always  think  of  you,  and 
hope  you  will  be  near  them;  for  I  know  if  vou  are.  you 
will  be  a  greater  help  lhan  I  could  be.  No  I  leave  them 
in  your  care,  Gerty,  though  yon  on;  only  a  child  yet." 

"  Thank  you,  Willie/'  said  Gertrude,  for  believing  1  shall 
do  everything  I  can  for  them.  I  certainly  will,  as  long  as 
I  live.  But,  Willie,  they  may  bo  strong  and  well  all 'the 
time  you  are  gone;  and  /,  although  1  am  so  young,  may  be 
sick  and  die — nobody  knows." 

"That  is  true  enough,"  said  Willie,  sadly:  "and  I  may 
die  myself;  but  it  will  not  do  to  think  of  that.  It  seems 
to  me  I  never  should  have  courage,  to  go,  if  I  didn't  hope 
to  find  you  all  well  and  happy  when  I  come  home.  You 
must  write  to  me  every  month,  for  it  will  be  a  much 
greater  task  to  mother,  and  1  am  sure  she  will  want  you  to 
do  nearly  all  the  writing;  and,  whether  my  letters  come 
directed  to  her  or  you,  it  will  be  all  the  same,  you  know. 
And,  Gerty,  you  must  not  forget  me,  darling  :  you  must 
love  me  just  as  much  when  1  am  gone — won't  you?" 

"Forget  you,  Willie!  1  shall  be  always  thinking  of  you, 
ar'd  loviiig  --,JU  £]ie  k«u;;K.  -,.s  ever.  What  else  shall  1  have 
to  do  ?  But  you  will  be  oil'  in  a  strange  country,  where 
everything  will  be  different,  and  you  will  not  think  half  as 
much  of  me,  I  know.'3 

"•'  If  you  believe  that,  Gertrude,  it  is  because  you  do  //<'</ 
know.  You  will  have  friends  all  around  you  and  I  shall 
be  alone  in  a  foreign  land;  but  every  day  of  my  life  my 
heart  will  be  with  vou  and  my  mother." 

They  were  now  interrupted  by  Mr.  Cooper's  return,  nor 
did  they  afterwards  renew  the  conversation;  hut  the  morn- 
ing Willie  left  them,  when  Mrs.  Sullivan  was  leaning  over 
a  neatly-packed  trunk  in  the  next  room,  trving  to  hide  her 
tears,  and  Mr.  Cooper's  head  was  bowed  lower  than  usual, 
Willie  whispered  to  Gerty,  "Gerry,  dear,  for  my  sake  take 
good  care  of  our  mother  and  grandfather— t  hev  arc  tftittrx 
almost  as  much  as  mine." 

On  Willie's  thus  leaving  home,  for  the  lirst  time,  to 
struggle  and  strive  among  men,  Mi'-  Cooper,  who  could  not, 


9$  TUK   1.  AM  T  LIGHTER. 

yet  believe  that  the  boy  would  be  successful  171  the  war  with 
fortune,  gave  him  many  a  caution  against  indulgent,  hopes 
which  never  would  he  realised.  And  Mrs.  Sullivan,  with 
tear.s,  said,  "  Love  and  fear  God,  Willie,  and  do  not  disap- 
point your  mother."  We  pause  not  to  dwell  upon  the 
last  night  the  youth  spent  ai,  his  home,  nis  mother's  last 
evening  prayer,  her  last  morning  benediction,  the  last 
breakfast  they  all  took  together  ((iertrude  among  the  rest), 
or  the  final  farewell  embrace.  And  Willie  went  to  sea. 
And  tin.'  pious,  loving,  hopeful  woman,  who  for  eighteen  I 
years  had  cherished  her  b-.y  with  tenderness  and  pride, 
maintained  now  her  wonted  spirit  of  self-sacrifice,  and  gave 
him  up  without  a  murmur.  Mone  know  how  she  struggled 
with  her  aching  heart,  or  whence  came  the1  power  that  sus- 
tained her. 

And  now  began  Gertrude's  residence  at  Mr.  Graham's, 
hitherto  in  various  ways  interrupted.  She  attended  school, 
and  laboured  diligent  iy  at  her  studies.  Her  life  was  varied 
bv  few  incidents,  for  Kmilv  never  entertained  much  com- 
pany, and  in  the  winter  scarcely  any,  and  Gertrude  formed 
no  intimate  acquaintance  among  her  companions.  With 
.Kmilv  she  pa.-sed  many  happy  hours;  they  took  walks, 
read  books,  and  talked  much  with  each  other,  and  Miss 
Graham  found  that  in  Gertrude's  observing  eyes,  and  her 
feeling  and  glowing  descriptions  of  everything  that  came 
vithin  their  ga/.e,  she  was  herself  renewing  her  acijuaint- 
ance  with  the  outer  world.  Jn  errands  of  charily  and 
mercy  (iertude  was  either  her  attendant  or  her  messenger; 
and  all  the  dependants  of  the  family,  from  the  Cook  to  the 
little  boy  who  called  at  the  door  for  the  fragments  of 
broken  bread,  agreed  in  loving  and  praising  the  child,  who, 
thoni_rh  neither  beautiful  nor  elegantly  dressed,  had  a  fairy 
liLfb'iiesrf  of  step,  a  grace  oi'  movement,  and  a  dignitv  of 
beal  .g  which  impressed  them  all  with  the  conviction  that 
Bhe  was  no  beggar  in  spirit,  whatever  might,  he  her  birth 
or  fortune.  Mrs.  Klli-'s  prejudices  against,  her  was  still 
stroni' •;  but,  as  (icrirtuie  was  alwavs  ejvil.  and  Kmilv 
prude, it.lv  kept  them  much  apart,  no  unhappy  result 
ensued. 

She   Went     often    t  o 

advanced,  t  hev  be-an 
iic^s  had  com.'.  h<  >v,  e 
Gruhuiua  t.o  remove  into  die  country  for  t.iiu  -sunnuci.  A. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  99 

letter  written  by  Gertrude  to  A\  illie,  .soon  after  they  were 
established  there,  will  give  some  idea  of  her  .-it nation  and 
mode  of  life. 

After  dwelling  upon  the  disappointment  of  having  not 
yet  heard  from  him,  and  giving  an  account  of  the  last  visit 
she  hud  made  to  his  mother  before  leaving  ;he  city,  the 
wrote:  "  But  yon  made  me  promise,  \Vi!!ie.  to  write  about 
myself,  and  said  yon  should  wish  to  hear  everything  that 
occurred  at  Mr.  Graham'.-  whidi  eoncornjd  me  in  anv  way, 
so  it'  inv  lettei1  is  more  tedioiis  than  n>ual.  it  is  your  own 

fault,  for  I  have  much  to  loll  of  our  removal  to  1) .  and 

of  the  way  in  which  we  live  here,  so  diltorenl  from  our  life 
in  Boston.  I  think  I  hear  you  say.  when  you  have  read  so 
far.  '0  dear!  now  Gerty  is  goiii'j;  to  give  me,  a  description 
of  Mr.  Graham's  country-house !  '--out,  you  need  not  be 
afraid;  I  have  not  forgotten  how,  the  l;isi  ••imel  undertook 
to  do  so,  you  placed  vour  hand  over  my  month  to  stop  me, 
and  assured  me  yon  knew  the  place  as  veil  as  if  yon  had 
lived  there  all  your  life,  for  !  oft  described  ii  to  you. 
i'jVerything  looks  smaller  and  ]<-ss  beautiful  than  it  seemed 
to  me  then;  and,  though  I  will  not  de.-er;i.<<>  it  to  you  again, 
I  must  just  tell  von  that  the  entry  and  pia/./.as  are  mucii 
narrower  than  1  expected,  the  rooms  lowr.and  the  garden 
and  summer-housus  not  nearly  so  laruv.  Miss  Kmiiy  asked 
me  a  dav  or  two  air*',  how  !  iiked  (!:••  plaee.  and  if  it 
looked  as  it  used  fonnorlv.  1  t"!d  her  iln-  truth:  and  she 
was  not  at  all  displcn-'d,  ln.it  laughed  a;  my  old  recollec- 
tions of  the  house  ami  grounds,  and  said  K  was  always  so 
with  things  we  had  seen  when  we  wore  I':1  •  children. 

"1  need  not  tell  von  that.  Mi--;  KmiK  \.-  kind  to  me  as 
ever;  for  nobody  who  knows  nor  as  yo'.i  do  would  suppo.-e 
she  con  Id  ever  be  anvthingbut  lhel.es*  ;::'d  ioveliesl  uerson 
in  the  world.  1  can  never  do  hall  enough,  Willie,  to  repay 
her  for  all  her  goodness  to  me:  and  yei.shi  is  so  pleased 
with  little  gifts,  and  ?o  grateful  for  trilling  attentions,  thai, 
it  seems  as  if  everybody  mi^iit  ({•>  sonie' 11,1:1;  in  make  her 
ha|>pv.  I  found  a  few  violets  in  liie  irra:->  yesterday,  and 
when  I  brought  them  to  her  she  kis.-i  d  and  thanked  me  as 
if  they  had  been  so  many  diamonds  nd  litile  i>en  (•.•  lelv, 
who  picked  a.  hatful  of  dandelion-l-ii  soms,  \\iii:o;it  .1 
single  stem,  and  then  lang  ai  i  h--  ;  r..  '  -'ioor  ,  ••; i.  a;.d  a.-ki-r] 
for  Miss  (ia'am.sr;  as  to  give  them  •'•  h-i  him.-<"h',  uf"t  a 
sweet  smiie  for  his  Lrouble,  and  a.  'thank  U'U,  l>ennie/  tnat 


100  TIIK  LAVPUC.IITKR. 

he  will  not  soon  forget.     Wasn't  it  pleasant  in  Miss  Emily, 
Willie  ? 

"Mr.  (iraham  has  given  me  a  garden,  ami  I  mean  to 
have  plenty  of  flowers  for  her  by-a;:d  -by -- 1  hat  is,  if  Mrs. 
Ellis  doesn't  interfere;  but  1  expect  she  will,  for  sh«  does 
in  almost  everything.  Willie,  Mrs.  Kllis  is  my  (jratl  trial. 
She  is  just  the  kind  of  person  I  cannot  endure.  1  believe 
there  are  some  people  that  other  people  cun'l  like — and 
she  is  just  the  sort  i  can't.  I  would  not  tell  anybody  else 
so,  because  it  would  no!  be  right,  and  I  do  not  know  that 
it  is  right  to  mention  it  at  all:  iuit  1  always  tell  you  every- 
thing. Miss  Emilv  talks  to  me  about  her.  and  says  1  must 
learn  to  love  her,  and  n'lii'ii  I  i!n  \  shall  be  an  angel. 

"There.  I  know  you  will  think  that  is  some  of  Ccrty's 
old  temper;  and  perhaps  it  is,  but  voii  don't  know  how  she 
tries  me:  it  is  in  little  things  that  1  cannot  tell  verv  easily, 
and  I  would  not  plague  von  with  them  if  1  could,  so  1 
won't  write  about  her  any  more — 1  will  try  to  love  her 
dearly. 

"  You  will  th''nk  that  now,  while  I  am  not  going  to 
school,  I  shall  hardlv  know  what  to  do  with  my  time; 
but  1  have  plentv  to  do.  The  first  week  after  we  came 
here  I  found  the  mornings  very  dull.  You  know  I  am 
always  an  earlv  risi-r:  but.  as  it  doc-  not  agree  with  Miss 
Emily  to  keep  early  houv-.  1  never  see  her  until  eight 
o'clock,  full  two  hours  after  i  am  up  and  dres.-ed.  When 
we  were  in  Boston,  J  always  spent,  that  time  studying; 
but  this  spring,  Mi-s  Kmi'y,  who  noticed  that  I  was  grow- 
ing fast,  and  heard  Mr.  Arnold  notice  how  pale  1  looked, 
fancied  it  would  not  do  for  me  to  spend  so  much  time  at, 
my  books;  and  so,  wln-n  we  came  to  1>  -  -.she  planned 
my  study-hours,  which  arc  very  lew,  and  arranged  that 
thev  should  take  place  after  breakfast,  and  in  her  own 
room.  She  alwavs  advi-cd  inc.  if  I  could,  to  ,-b'ep  later  in 
the  morning;  but  1  could  not,  and  was  up  at  mv  usual 
time,  wandering  around  ihe  garden.  Onedav  I  wa.- 
su rprised  to  ti ml  M  r. 
his  winter  habit,- :  b 
to  come  and  help 
think  i  did  it  pretty 
n  u  m  I  >e  i1  o  I  things,  ai 
th"  side  of  them. 


THE  LAMPLICIirEn.  101 

flowers.  And  so  I  am  to  'imvo  a  garden.  P>ut  I  am  mak- 
ing a  very  long  story,  \\  iliie,  and  have  not  time  to  say  a 
thousand  other  things  that  I  want  to.  ()'.  if  I  could  see 
you,,  1  could  tell  you  in  an  hour  more  than  1  could  write 
in  a  week.  Jn  the  minutes  I  expect  to  hear  Miss  Emily's 
bell,  and  then  she  will  send  for  me  to  come  and  read  to 
her. 

''I  long  to  hear  from  you,  dear  AVillie,  and  pray  to  Cod 
morning  and  evening,  to  keep  you  in  safety,  and  soon 
send  tidings  of  you  to  your  loving  Gi-:in:r.'v 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE    RUI.TN'G    TASSTOX    COXTT10LLED. 

A  FEW  weeks  after  the  date  of  this  letter,  Gerty  learned 
through  George,  who  went  daily  to  the  city  to  attend  to 
the  marketing,  that  Mrs.  Sullivan  had  left  word  at  the 
shop  of  our  old  acquaintance,  the  butcher,  that  she  had 
received  a  letter  from  \\  illic,  and  wanted  Gerty  to  come 
into  town  and  see  it.  Emily  was  willing  to  let  her  go, 
but  afraid  it  would  be  impossible  to  arrange  it,  as  Charlie, 
the  only  horse  Mr.  Graham  kept,  was  in  use,  and  she  saw 
no  other  way  of  sending  her.  "  \\  hy  don't  you  let  her 
go  in  the  omnibus  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Ellis.  Gerty  looked 
gratefully  at  Mrs.  Ellis;  it  was  the  tirst  time  that  lady 
had  ever  seemed  anxious  to  promote  her  views. 

'•  I  don't  think  it's  safe  for  her  to  go  alone  in  the  coach," 
said  Kmilv. 

"'Safe'— What,  for  (hat  great  girl !  "  said  Mr*.  Kills, 
whose  position  in  the  family  had  no  forms  of  restraint 
Avith  M  iss  Graham. 

"  Do  you  think  it  is  ?  "  inquired  Emily.  ''She  seems  a 
child  to  me,  to  be  sure;  but  as  yon  say,  she  is  almost 
grown  up,  and  1  dare  say  is  capable  of  taking  care  of  her- 
self. Gertrude,  are  you  sure  you  know  the  way  from  the 
the  omnibus-oll'iee  in  Host  on  lo  Mrs.  (Sullivan's? 

"  Perfectly  well.  Miss  Kmily." 

A  place  was  therefore  secured,  and  Gertrude  set  forth 
oil  her  expedition  with  beaming  eves  and  a  full  heart. 


102  THE   T.AMri.fdlTEIt. 

She  found  Mr-.  Sullivan  and  Mr.  Cooper  well,  and  rejoic- 
ing over  the  tidings  from  \\iilie,  \vho.  aftel1  a  long  but 
agreeable  voyage,  had  reached  Calcutta  in  health  and 
safety.  A  description  of  hi-  ne.v  home,  his  new  duties 
and  employer-,  tlil.-d  all  ihe  iv-t  of  the  letter,  except  what 
was  devoted  to  alleci  ionate  me.-.-ages  and  inquiries,  a  large 
share  of  which  wen.1  l'»r  C.ertv.  (iert  rude  dined  with  Mrs. 
Sullivan,  and  the!1  hastened  to  '.lie  omnibus.  She  took 
he!1  seat,  and  as  she  waited  for  the  coaeh  to  start,  amused 
herself  with  ihe  pas.-ers-by.  it  was  nearlv  three  o'clock, 
and  she  began  to  think  she  should  In-  theonlv  passenger, 
when  she  heard  a  strange  voice  proceeding  from  a  person 
whose  approach  .-he  had  nor  pereeived.  She  moved 
towards  the  door,  and  saw,  standing  at  the  back  of  the 
coach,  the  most  singular-looking  being  she  had  ever  be- 
held. It  was  an  old  lady,  small,  and  considerably  bent 
with  years.  She  had  been  vainly  endeavouring  to  mount 
the  inconvenient  vehicle,  and  now,  with  one  foot  upon  the 
lower  step,  was  calling  to  the  driver  to  help  her.  "Sir," 
said  she,  in  mcasi  red  tones.  '  is  this  travelling  equipage 
under  your  honoura  bl  >  hai  uv  ?  " 

"\Vhat  say,  inarm?  Yes,  I'm  the  driver:"  saving 
which,  he  came  up  to  the  door,  opened  ii.  and  without 
waiting  for  the  pi  !•:••  ivques!  which  was  on  the  old  lady's 
lips,  placed  !.:-  '\:-'~- d  beneath  her  elbow,  and  lifted  her 
into  the  coach  and  shin  ihe  door.  "  Mless  me!  "ejacu- 
lated she,  as  she  seated  herself  opposite  (iert rude,  and 
beuran  to  arrange  her  veil  and  other  draperies,  "  that  indi- 
vidual is  not  ver.-ed  in  the  art  of  assisting  a  ladv,  without 
detriment  to  her  habiliments.  <)  dear,  O  dear!"  added 
she.  "  I  '•>  e  h>-t  my  parasi  il." 

She  rose  as  .-lie  M>okc:  but  flu1  sudden  starling  of  the 
coaeh  threw1  her  »ll  tier  balance,  and  she  would  have 
fallen,  had  it  no!  b.-i  •.  for  ( .;ert rude,  who  caught  her  by 
the  arm,  and  reseated  her,  saying  as  siiedid  so.  "  ]  )o  not 
be  alarmed,  madam  ;  here  i-  ihe  parasol." 

A-  she  spoke  -!.e  drew  into  view  the  missiiiLf  article, 
which,  though  nearh  ih<  -'  •  •  n'ella.  was  fastened 

to  the  o'd  ladyV  v;,;-:  b\  a  green  ribbon,  and,  having 
it'i]  out  of  plaee  v.  a-  su  ppo.-ed  ],  ,-t.  A  nd  not  a 
parasol  onlv  did  -  In  li-jht:  numerous  other  arti- 

cles, conm  •  '  '  '  aim-  '.oven  >t  ring  a  larire  ret  i- 

cule  of  varioiiB  colours,  a  black  lace  cap,  a  large  feather 


fan,  and  other  articles.  They  \v<>n>  partly  hidden  under  a 
thin  black  silk  shawl,  and  <Jertrude  in-^an  to  think  her 
companion  had  been  on  a  pilfering  expedition.  J  f  so.  how- 
ever, the  culprit  seemed  remarkably  at  ease.  for.  before  the 
coaeh  had  gone  many  steps*,  she  deliberately  placed  her  feet 
on  the  opposite  seat,  and  proceeded  to  make  herself  com- 
fortable. Jn  the  first  place,  much  to  ( ler!  mile's  horror, 
she  took  out  all  her  teeth,  and  put  them  in  her  work-bag; 
then  drew  oil'  a  pair  of  black  silk  gloves,  and  replaced 
them  by  cotton  ones;  removed  her  lace  veil,  folded  and. 
pinned  it  to  the  green  spring.  She  next  untied  her  bonnet, 
threw  over  it.  as  a  protection  from  the  dust,  a  large  cotton 
handkerchief,  and  loosing  her  fan,  applied  herself  dili- 
gently co  the  use  of  it,  closing  her  eves  as  she  did  so, 
evidently  intending  to  go  to  sleep.  She  did  fall  into  a 
dose,  for  she  was  very  quiet,  and  Gertrude,  occupied  with 
observin  some  heav  clouds  that  were  risin  from  the 


startled   bv  a  hand  suddenly   laid   upon    her  own,  and  an 

abrupt  exclamation  of  "'My  dear  younir  damsel,  do  not 
those  dark  shadows  betoken  adverse  weather  ?  '' 

"  1  think  it,  will  rain  very  soon,"  replied  Gertrude. 

"This  morn,  when  1  ventured  forth,'' soliloquised  the. 
old  ladv,  "the  sun  was  bright,  the  skv  serene:  even  the 
winged  songsters  took  part,  in  the  uni\ersal  joy;  and  now 
before  I  get  home,  my  delicate  la.ee  iloiiinvs  (glancing  at 
the  skirt  of  her  dress)  will  prove  a  saeritiee  to  the  pitiless 
storm.'' 

''  Does  the  coach  pass  vonr  door;"  asked  Gertrude. 

"No;  Oh,  no!  not  within  half-a-mile.  Does  it  better 
accommodate  you.  my  yo 

''  Xo.     J  shall  have  a  n 

The  coach  had  reached  its  destination,  and  the  two  pas- 
sengers alighted.  Gertrude  would  have  started  at  once  on 
her  walk,  but  was  prevented  bv  the  old  ladv,  who  begged 
her  to  wait,  as  she  was  going  the  same  way,  Tne  old  lady 
refused  to  pay  the  fare  demanded  by  the  driver;  and  de- 
clared it  was  not;  the  regular  fare,  and  aecu.-ed  the  man  of 
an  intention  to  put  the  excess  into  hi-  pocket.  Gcrtrudo. 
was  impatient,  for  she  was  every  moment  expecting  to  set! 

iiit  the  mat  'el1  beinir  com;  To- 
pr«'-eed.  Th''V  had  walked 
erv  .-low  rate,  \\  lieu 


104  THE  r.AVPI. 

the  rain  fell;  and  now  dertrude  was  asked  to  unloose  the 
huge  parasol,  and  rarrv  it  over  her  companion  and  herself. 
Jn  this  wnv  they  liad  walked  nearly  as  much  more  of  the 
distance,  when  the  waters  began  to  descend  as  if  all  the 
reservoirs  of  heaven  were  thrown  open.  Just  then  tier- 
trude  heard  a  step  behind  them,  and,  turning,  she  saw 
( ieorge,  Mr.  (iraliam's  man,  running  in  the  direction  of 
the  house.  He  recognised  her  at  once,  and  exclaimed, 
"Miss  (lertrude,  you'll  be  wet  through;  and  Miss  Pace 
too.  Sure,  and  ye'd  better  baith  hasten  to  her  house, 
where  ye'll  be  secure." 

So  saying,  he  caught:  Miss  Pace  in  his  arms,  and  signing 
to  (Jertrude  to  follow,  rushed  across  the  street,  and  hurry- 
ing on  to  a  cottage  near  bv,  did  not  stop  until  lie  had 
placed  the  old  ladv  in  safety  beneath  her  own  porch;  ami 
(iertyulso  gained  its  shelter.  Missl'ace  was  so  bewiklered 
that  it  took  her  some  minutes  to  recover  her  conscious- 
ness; and  it,  was  arranged  that  (iertrude  should  stop 
where  she  was  for  an  hour  or  two.  and  that  (jeorge 
should  call  for  her  when  he  pas.-ed  that  wav  with  the  car- 
riage on  his  return  from  the  depot. 

Miss  I'attv  I 'ace  was  not  a  person  <,f  much  hospitality. 
She  owned  the  cottage  which  .-he  occupied  and  lived  alone, 
keeping  no  servants  and  entertaining  no  visitors.  She  was 
herself  a  famous  visitor;  and.  a.-  but.  a  small  part,  of  her 
life  had  been  passed  in  1> .and  ail  her  friends  and  con- 
nexions lived  either  in  Huston  or  at  a  much  greater  dis- 
tance, she  was  a  constant  frequenter  of  omnibuses.  Hut 
though,  through  her  travelling'  propensit  ies  and  her  re^u  lar 
attendance  at  church,  .-he  wa.-  v.eil  known.  ( lert  rude  was 
perhaps  !  in-  lirsl  visitor  wlm  had  ever  entei'ed  her  house. 

n  she  was  at  her  door,  .-he  had  to  take  the  old 
unlock  and  open  it  herself,  and  tinallv  lead  lier 
nto  liie  parlour,  and  help  her  oil'  with  her  innu- 
capes,  shawls,  and  \eils.  Once  come  to  a  distiiutt 
ness  of  her  situation,  ho\ve\er,  and  Miss  I'attv 
1  'ace  cuml  uei  ed  herself  willi  all  the  elegant  politeness  for 
which  .-he  was  remarkable.  SulTering  a  thousand  regrets 
at  t he  t  rving"  experience  ln-r  o\\  :  elut  lies  liad  sustained,  she 
expres-ed  neariv  a-  main  '.  -:\'.'-  le.-l  (Jertnule  had  ruined 
everv  article  <if  her  drc--.  v  as  onlv  after  man\  assur- 

ance- from  tin1  latter  thai  hi  r  boots  M'ere  scarc(dv  wet  at 
ail,  her  gingham  ilr,\-.-  and  cape  nut  hurt  by  rain,  and  her 


THE  T.AMPL 

nice  straw  bonnet  safe  under  the  scarf  she  had  thrown  over 
it,  that  Miss  1'atty  could  he  prevailed  upon  to  so  far  forget. 
the  duties  of  a  hostess  as  to  retire,  and  change  her  lace 
ilounces  i'or  something  more  suitable  for  home  wear.  As 
soon  as  she  left  the  room,  (iertrude,  whose  curiosity  was 
excited,  took  u  nearer  view  of  many  articles,  both  of  orna- 
ment and  use,  which  had  attracted  her  attention,  from 
their  singular  appearance.  Miss  Pace's  room  was  remarka- 
ble as  its  owner.  Its  furniture, like  her  apparel,  was  made 
up  of  the  gleanings  of  every  age  and  fashion,  (iertrude's 
quick  eye  was  revelling  amid  the  few  relics  of  ancient  elo- 
quence, ami  the  numerous  specimens  of  folly  and  bad  taste, 
when  the  old  lady  returned. 

A  neat  though  quaint  black  dress  having  taken  the  place 
of  the  much-valued  Ilounces,  she  now  looked  more  ladv-like. 
She  held  in  her  hand  a  tumbler  of  pepper  and  water,  and 
begged  her  visitor  to  drink,  assuring  her  it  would  warm  her 
stomach  and  prevent  her  taking  cold;  and  when  (.iertrude, 
who  could  scarcely  keep  from  laughing  in  her  face,  declined 
the  beverage,  Miss  Patty  seated  herself,  and,  while  enjoying 
the  refreshment,  carried  on  a  conversation  which  at  one 
moment  satisfied  her  visitor  she  was  a  women  of  sense,  and 
the  next  that  she  was  either  foolish  or  insane.  The  im- 
pression which  (.iertrude  made  upon  Miss  Patty  was  more 
decided.  Miss  Patty  was  delighted,  with  t  he  young  miss, 
and  declared  she  had  an  intellect  that  would  do  honour 
to  a  queen,  a  figure  that  was  airy  as  a  gazelle,  and  motions 
more  graceful  than  those  of  a  swan,  \\hen  (ieorgccame 
i'or  (iertrude,  Miss  Pace  was  sorry  to  part  with  her,  invited 
her  to  come  again,  and  she  promised  to  do  so. 

The  satisfactory  news  from  Willie,  and  the  amusing  ad- 
ventures of  the  afternoon,  had  given  to  (Jertrude  such  a 
feeling  of  buoyancy,  that  she  bounded  into  the  house,  and 
up  the  stall's,  with  that  fairy  quickness  Uncle  True  had  so 
loved  to  see  in  her,  and  which,  since  his  death,  her  subdued 
spirits  had  rarely  permitted  her  to  exercise. 

At  the  door  of  her  room  she  met  P>ridg<M 
maid.  On  inquiring  what  was  going  on  there, 
that  during  her  absence  her  room  had  received 
cleaning.  Alarmed  at  the  idea  of  Mrs.  Klhs 
vaded  her  premises,  she  surveyed  the  apartment  \\ilh  a 
slight  feeling  of  agitation,  which,  as  she  continued  her 
observations,  swelled  into  am.'TV  excitement. 


106  TV/A'   LAMPI.TCIITEU. 

When  Gertrude  went  from  Mrs.  Sullivan's  tr,  Mr 
G  nil  mill's  house  in  the  cit  v,  she  t  o<ik  \\  ii  h  her  a  I  runk  con- 
taining  her  wardrobe,  an  old  bandbox.  \\hieh  she  put  on 
the  shell"  of  a  closet  in  her  ehaniher.  There  it  remained 
during  the  winter,  unpacked,  and  when  the  family  went 
into  the  country.  I  lie  ho.\  went  also,  carefully  protected  hy 
its  owner,  who  had  put  it  in  a  corner  hehind  the  l>ed,  and 
the  evening  het'ore  her  expedit  ion  to  the  city  had  heen  en- 
gaged in  inspecting  its  contents,  endeared  to  her  hy  the 
charm  of  old  association,  and  many  a  tear  had  the  little 
maiden  shed  over  her  stock  of  valuables.  There  was  the 
figure  of  the  Samuel,  l/ncle  True's  iirst  gift  ,  defaced  by- 
time  and  accident.  There,  too,  were  his  pipe-,  dark  with 
smoke  and  age;  but  as  she  thought  what  comfort  they  had 
been  to  him,  she  felt  them  a  consolation  to  her.  She  had 
also  his  lantern,  for  she  had  not  forgotten  its  pleasant  light, 
the  Iirst  that  ever  fell  upon  the  darkness  of  her  life;  also 
bis  fur  cap,  beneath  which  she  had  often  seen  the  kindly 
smile,  and  could  hardly  realise  thai  there  was.  not  one  for 
her  si  ill  hidden  beneath  its  crown. 

All  these  things,  excepting  the  lantern  and  cap.  (  !er!  rude 
had  left  upon  the  mantel-piece;  and  on  entering  the  room, 
her  eye  sought  her  treasures.  They  were  gone.  Tiie  man- 
tel-piece was  empty.  She  ran  towards  the  corner  for  the 
old  box.  It  was  gone.  To  rush  after  the  housemaid  and 
question  her  was  but  the  work  of  an  instant. 

Bridget  was  a  new-comer,  a  stupid  specimen,  but  Ger- 
trude  obtained  from  her  all  the  information  she  needed. 
The  iman'e,  the  pipes,  and  the  lantern  were  thro\\n  among 
a  heap  of  broken  glass  and  crockery,  and  smashed  to  atoms. 
The  cap,  said  to  be  moth-eaten,  and  the 
been  cast  into  the  lire  at  Mr.-.  Kili.-'s 


her    knees,  and    buried    her    face    in    her    hands,      (dice   01 


and  Lroi!;;_;'  to  face  her  enemy  :  but  eaeii  Mine  something 
came  across  her  mind  and  detained  her.  It  was  not  fear; 
oh,  no!  Gertrude  wa-  not  afraid  of  anybody.  It  must 
have  been  some  stronger  motive  than  that.  \\hate\erit 


THE  LAMPLIGITTKR.  107 

might  be,  it  was  something  that  had  a  soothing  influence, 
for,  after  every  fresh  struggle,  she  UTCW  calmer,  and  rising, 
seated  herself  in  a  chair  by  the  window,  leaned  her  head  on 
her  hand,  and  looked  out.  The  shower  was  over,  and  the 
smiles  of  the  refreshed  earth  were  reflected  in  a  glowing 
rainbow.  A  little  bird  came  and  perched  on  a  branch  of  a 
tree  close  to  the  window,  and  shouted  forth  a  7V  Ih'inn. 
A  Persian  lilac-bush,  in  full  bloom,  sent  tin  a  delicious  fra- 
grance. A  wonderful  calm  stole  into  (iertrude's  heart, 

brings  peace  succeed  to  the 
She  had  conquered ;  she 
had  achieved  the  greatest  of  earth's  victories,  a  victory  over 
herself.  The  brilliant  rainbow,  the  carol  of  the  bird,  the 
fragrance  of  the  blossoms,  all  the  bright  things  that  glad- 
dened the  earth  after  the  storm,  were  not  half  so  beautiful 
as  the  light  ttiat  overspread  the  face  of  the  young  girl 
when,  the  storm  within  her  laid  at  rest,  she  looked  up  to 
heaven  and  her  heart  sent  forth  its  silent  offering  of  praise. 

The  sound  of  the  tea-bell  startled  her.  She  bathed  her 
face  and  brushed  her  hair,  and  went  downstairs.  There 
was  no  one  in  the  dining-room  but  Mrs.  Kllis ;»^Ir.  (iraham 
had  been  detained  in  town,  and  Kmily  was  suffering  severe 
headache,  (iertrude  took  tea  alone  with  Mrs.  Kllis,  who, 
unaware  of  the  great  value  (iertrude  attached  to  her  old 
relics,  was  conscious  .she  had  done  an  unkind  thing. 

Next  day  M  rs.  Prime,  the  cook,  came  to  Kmilv's  room,  and 
produced  the  little  basket,  made  of  a  nut,  saving,  "1  won- 
der now.  Miss  Emily,  where  Miss  (iertrudc  is;  for  I've 
found  her  little  basket  in  the  coal-hole,  and  I  guess  she'll 
be  right  glad  on't — 'tan't  hurt:  a  mite.''  Kmily  inquired, 
''  What  basket?  "and  the  cook,  placing  it  in  her  hands, 
2'ave  an  account  of  the  destruction  of  (iertrude's  property, 
which  she  had  herself  witnessed  with  indignation.  She 
described  the  distress,  of  (iertrude  when  questioning 
Bridget,  which  the  sympathising  cook  had  heard  from  her 
chamber. 

As  Emily  listened  to  the  story,  she  thought  the  previous 
afternoon  she  heard  (iertrude  sobbing  in  her  room,  but 

die  mistoi  ik.  "  <  ii  i,"  sa.id  she,. 
( iei"  riide :  she  is  in  the  little 


lllS  THE  LAVPLK11TTET;. 

several  clays,  to  hear   from   Gertrude  the  story  of  her  in- 
juries;  but  Gertrude  kept  her  trouble  to  herself. 

This  was  the  first  instance  of  complete  self-control  to 
Gerty.  From  this  time  she  experienced  more  and  more  the 
power  of  governing  herself;  and,  with  each  new  effort 
gaining  new  strength,  became  at  last  a  wonder  to  those 
•who  knew  the  temperament  she  had  had  to  contend  with. 
She  was  now  nearly  fourteen  years  old,  and  so  rapid  had 
been  her  recent  growth  that,  instead  of  being  below  the 
usual  stature,  she  was  taller  than  most  girls  of  her  age. 
Freedom  from  study,  and  plenty  of  air  and  exercise,  pre- 
vented her,  however,  from  suffering  from  this  circumstance. 
Her  garden  was  a  source  of  great  pleasure,  to  her,  and 
llowers  prospering  under  her  careful  training,  she  had  al- 
ways a  bouquet  ready  to  place  by  Emily's  plate  ut  break- 
fast-time. 


CHAPTER  XV III. 

THE  NUUSI:. 

MR.  GRAHAM'S  garden  was  very  beautiful,  abounding 
in  rich  shrubbery,  summer  houses,  and  arbours  covered 
with  "rape-vines;  but  a  high,  broad  fence  hid  it  from 
public  view,  and  the  house,  standing  back  from  the  road, 
was  old-fashioned  in  its  appearance.  The  summer  was 
passing  most  happily,  and  Gertrude,  in  the  enjoyment  of 
and  in  the  consciousness  that,  she  was 
useful  and  important  to  this  excellent 
g  in  every  dav  new  causes  of  content- 
g, \\  h<in  a  stop  was  suddenly  put  to  all 

ll  with  a  fever,  and  Gertrude,  on  her 
entering  the  sick-room,  to  .-hare  in  its  duties,  was  rudely 
repulsed  by  Mrs.  Ellis,  who  had  constituted  herself  s.tle 
nurse,  and  who  declared  that  the  fever  was  catching,  and 
.Miss  Fmilv  did  not  want  her  1  here. 
For  three  or  four  da\s  (lertru 
house,  inconsolable.  <  >n  ihetifih 
ishment  from  the  room.  :-lie  saw 
going  upstairs  with  some  ;:ruel; 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  1<>!> 

beautiful  rosebuds  which  she  had  gathered,  she  begged 
her  to  give  them  to  Kmily.  and  ask  it  she  might,  not  come 
in  and  see  her.  She  lingered  about  the  kitchen  awaiting 
Mrs.  Prime's  return,  in  hopes  of  some  message,  at  least, 
from  the  sulferer.  But  when  the  cook  came  down  the 
flowers  were  still  in  her  hand,  and  as  she  threw  them  on 
the  table,  the  kind-hearted  woman  gave  vent  to  her 
feelings. 

"  Well!  folks  do  say  that  first -rate  cooks  and  nurses  are 
allers  as  cross  as  bears!  'Tan't  for  me  to  sav  whether  it's 
so  'bout  cooks,  but  'bout  nurses  there  an'tno  sort  o1  doubt ! 
I  would  not,  wain;  to  go  there.  .Miss  Gertrude;  I'm  sure 
she'd  bit  your  head  oil'." 

''Wouldn't  Miss  Emily  take  the  flowers?"  asked  Ger- 
trude, looking  quite  grieved. 

"  Well,  she  hadn't  no  word  in  the  matter.  You  know 
she  couldn't  see  what  they  were;  and  Mrs.  Kills  thing  'em 
outside  the  door,  vowin'  1  might  as  well  bring  pison  into 
the  room  with  a  fever  as  roses.  I  tried  to  speak  to  Miss 
Emily,  but  Mrs.  Ellis  set  up  such  a  luish-sh-sh  I  s'posed 
she  was  goiir  to  sleep,  and  jest,  made  the  best  o'  inv  wav 
out.  1'gh!  don't  she  begin  to  scold  when  there's  any- 
body taken  sick!  " 

Gertrude  sauntered  out,  into  the  garden.  She  had  7ioth- 
ing  to  do  but  think  anxiously  about  Emily,  who,  she 
feared,  was  very  ill.  Jler  work  and  her  books  were  all  in 
Emily's  room,  where  they  were  usually  kept;  the  library 
might  have  furnished  amusement,  but  it  was  locked  up. 
So  the  garden  was  the  only  thing  left  for  her.  and  there 
she  spent  the  rest  of  the  morning;  and  many  others,  for 
Emily  grew  worse,  and  a  fortnight,  passed  away  without 
Gertrude's  seeing  her,  or  having  any  other  intimation 
regarding  her  health  than  Mrs.  Ellis's  occasional  report  to 
Mr.  Graham,  who,  as  he  saw  the  physician  every  day.  and 
made  frequent  visits  to  his  daughter,  did  not  require  that 
particular  information  which  Gertrude  was  eager  to  ob- 
tain. Once  or  twice  she  had  asked  Mrs.  Kills,  who  re- 
plied, ''  Don't  hot  her  me 
know  about  sickness  ?  '' 

( )ne  afternoon    ( lert  r 
house  at  the  end  of  t  he 
fr. (grant    wit  h    m  ign<  met  t  e 
sh..  WHS   busily  engaged    in 


110  THE   l..\Mri.H;UTER. 

seeds,  when  she  was  startled  by  hearing  a  step  beside  her, 
and  looking  up,  t;i\v  Dr.  Jeremy,  the  family  physician, 
entering  the.  building. 

"All!  what  are  you  doing?"  said  the  doctor,  in  a  quick 
manner  peeuliar  to  him.  "  Sorting  seeds,  eh  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  derty.  Mushing,  as  she  saw  the 
doctor's  keen  black  eyes  scrutinising  he)'  face! 

"Where  have  I  seen  \oii  before  ':  "  asked  he,  in  th'_ 
same  blunt  way. 

"At  Mr.  Flint's." 

"Ah!  True  .Flint's!  I  remember  all  about  it.  You're 
his  girl!  Nice  girl,  too!  And  poor  True,  he's  dead  !  Well, 
lie's  a  loss  to  the  community  !  So  this  is  the  little  nurse  i 
used  to  see  there.  I'dess  me!  how  children  do  grow!" 

"  Doctor  Jeremy,'"  asked  (iertrude.  in  an  earnest  voice, 
"will  you  please  to  tell  me  how  Miss  .Fmily  is  ? '" 

"  Fmily!  she  an't  very  well  just  now." 

"  [)o  you  t  hink  she'll  die  ?  " 

"Die!  .No!  What  should  she  die  for?  I  won't  let 
her  die,  if  you'll  help  me  to  keep  her  alive.  Why  aai't  you 
in  the  house  taking  care  of  her;''' 

"I  wish  1  might!  "  exclaimed  Gertrude,  starting  up;  ''I 
wish  I  might ! 

"  What's  to  hinder  ?  •' 

"Mrs.  Fllis,  sir:  she  won't  let  me  in;  she  says  Miss 
Emily  doesn't  waul  anybody  bin  her." 

"  She's  nothing  to  say  about  it,  or  Fmily  either:  it's  mv 
business,  and  I  want  you.  I'd  rather  have  you  to  take 
care  of  my  patients  than  all  tin'  Mrs.  Fllises  in  the  world. 
She  knows  nothing  about  i.ur.-ing:  let  her  .-tick  to  her 
cranberry-sauce  and  squash-pies,.  So,  mind,  to-morrow 
you're  to  hc^in." 

"  O.  t  hank  you.  doctor.''* 

''  Don't  thank  me  yet  ;  wait,  till  you've  tried  it-  it's 
hard  work  taking  can1  of  sick  folks.  Whose  orchard  is, 
that  I-  " 

"  M  rs.   limce's.  " 

"  Is  t  hat   her  pcar-t  roe  ?  " 

'•  Yes.  sir." 

"  P>v  (icorge,  Mr,-.  I'nicc,  I'll  try  your  poars  for  you!  " 

A.-  ho  spoke,  tli''  ijoi  to;-,  a  man  MIMIC  ,-i.\t  v  live  years  of 
aLrc.,  ituut,  ajjd  ai-;  i  \  i',  .- 1 'I'll  i,  ^  over  a  -tone  wall,  \\i,ith 

O     '  •        I  •  . 


THE   LAMrLKlUTER.  Ill 

separated  them  from  the  orchard,  and  reached  the  foot  of 
the  tree  almost  at  a  bound. 

As  Gertrude  watched  I  he  proceeding,  she  observed  the 
doctor  stumble  over  some  obstacle,  and  only  saved  himself 
from  falling  by  stretching  forth  both  hands,  and  sustain- 
ing himself  against  the  trunk  of  the  tree.  At  the  same 
instant  a  head,  adorned  with  a  velvet  smoking-cap,  was 
slowly  lifted  from  the  jong  grass,  and  a  youth,  about  six- 
teen or  seventeen  years  of  age,  stared  at  the  intruder.  i 

Nothing  daunted,  the  doctor  at  once  took  the  offensive 
ground  towards  the  occupant  of  the  place,  saying,  "  Get 
wp,  lazy  bones!  What  do  you  lie  there  for,  tripping  up 
holiest  "folks?" 

"Whom  do  you  call  honest  fol'~s,  sir?"  inquired  the 
youth,  apparently  undisturbed  by  the  doctor's  epithet  and 
inquiry.  lie  showed  much  sonif  frui'l. 

"  [  call  myself  and  my  little  friend  here  remarkably 
honest  people/''  replied  the  doctor,  winking  at  Gertrude, 
who,  standing  behind  the  wall  and  looking  over,  was 
laughing  at  the  way  in  which  the  doctor  had  got  caught. 
The  young  man  turned,  and  gave  a  broad  stare  at  Ger- 
trude's merry  face. 

"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you,  sir  ?  "  asked  he. 

"  Yes,  certainly/'  replied  the  doctor.  "  I  came  hero  to 
help  myself  to  pears;  but  you  are  taller  than  I — perhaps, 
with  the  help  of  that  crooked-handled  cane  of  yours,  you 
can  reach  that  best  branch." 

"A  remarkably  honourable  and  honest  errand!"  mut- 
tered the  young  man.  "  I  shall  be  happy  to  be  engaged 
in  so  good  a  cause."  And,  drawing  down  the  branch,  so 
that  he  could  rea/-h  it  with  his  hand,  shook  it  vigorously. 
The  ripe  fruit  fell  on  everv  side;  and  the  doctor,  having 
filled  his  pockets,  and  boi.a  his  hands,  started  for  the 
o:her  side  of  the  wall. 

"  Have  you  got  enough  ?  "  asked  the  youth,  in  a  very 
lazy  tone  of  voice. 

"  Plenty,  plenty/'  sa:u  the  doctor. 

"(Had  of  it/'  said  the  boy,  indolently  throwing  himself 
on  ihe  grass,  and  still  staring  at  Gertrude. 

"You  must  be  very  tired,1'  said  the  doctor,  stepping 
hack  a  pact;  or  two;  "  I'm  a,  physician,  ami  should  mhiso 
a  nap." 

"Are   you,  indeed'"    renliod    the   youth,  in    the   .sam*- 


112  TllK  LAMPLIGHTER. 

half-drawling,  half-ironical  tone  of  voice;  "then  I  think 
I'll  take  yonr  advice;''  ;uul  lie  threw  himself  upon  the 
grass,  and  closed  his  eyes. 

Having  emptied  his  pockets  upon  the  seat  of  the  sum- 
mer-house, and  invited  Gertrude  to  partake,  the  doctor, 
still  laughing  at  his  boyish  feat,  looked  at  his  watch. 
'•  Half-past  four!  The  cars  go  in  ten  minutes.  Who's 
going  to  drive  me  clown  to  the  depot  ?" 

-  I  don't  know,  sir/''  replied  Gertrude. 

"  Y»' here's  George  ?" 

"  He's  gone  to  the  meadow  to  get  in  some  hay,  but  he 
left  white  Charlie  harnessed  in  the  yard;  1  saw  him  fasten 
him  to  the  chain,  after  he  drove  you  up  from  the  cars. 

"  Ah!  then  you  can  drive  me  do\vn  to  the  depot/'' 

"  I  can't,  sir;  I  don't  know  how." 

"  Rut  you  must;  I'll  show  yon  how.  You're  not 
afraid  ?  " 

"  0,  no,  sir;  but  Mr.  Graham " 

"  Never  you  mind  Mr.  Graham — do  yon  mind  me.  I'll 
answer  for  yonr  coming  hack  safe  enough." 

Gertrude  was  naturally  courageous;  she  had  never 
driven  before,  but,  having  no  fears,  she  succeeded  admira- 
bly, and,  being  often  afterwards  called  upon  by  Dr. 
Jeremy  to  perform  the  same  service,  she  soon  became 
skilful  in  the  use  of  the  reins. 

Dr.  Jeremy  was  true  to  his  promise  of  installing  Ger- 
trude in  Emily's  sick  room.  The  nest  visit  he  made  to 
his  patient,  he  spoke  in  terms  of  the  highest,  praise  of 
Gertrude's  devotion  to  her  old  U7icle.  and  her  capability  as 
u  nurso.  and  asked  why  she  had  been  expelled  from  the 
chamber. 

"  She  is  timid."  said  Emily,  "and  is  afraid  of  catching 
the  fever." 

"  Don't  believe  it,  said  Dr.  Jeremy;  " 'tan't  like  her." 

"Do  you  think  not?"  inquired  Emily,  earnestly 
"Mrs.  Ellis " 

"  Told  a  lie,"  interrupted  the  doctor.  "  Gerty  wants  to 
come  and  take  care  of  you,  and  she  knows  how  as  well  as 
Mrs.  Ellis  anv  dav;  it  isn't  much  you  need  done.  You 
want  quiet,  and  that's  \vhat  you  can't  have  with  that  great 
talking  woman  about.  Si  1'il  ,-t  nd  her  to  Jericho  t.o-day, 
ynd  brin^mv  little  Gertrude  up  here.  She's  a  quiet  little 
'jioiis^,  nail  toys  y'"i-.  "  1'fnJ  on  her  shoulders," 


113 

it  is  not  to  bo  supposed  that  Gertrude  could  provide  for 
Emily's  wants  any  belter  than  Mrs.  Eiiis;  and  Emily, 
knowing  this,  took  care  that  the  househeeper  should  not 
be  sent  to  Jericho:  lor.  though  Dr.  Jeremy,  a  man  of 
strong  preji.  dices,  did  not  like  her,  she  was  excellent  in  her 
department,  and  could  m>t  be  dispensed  with. 

So,  though  Emily.  Dr.  Jeremy,  and  Uertrude  w^rc  all 
made  happy  by  the  free  admission  of  the  latter  to  the  sick- 

-  "mi,  the  housekeeper  was   never  conscious  that  anyone 

•  ..  ;W  her  ill-will  to  (Gertrude. 

1'liere  were  care  and  tenderness  in  Gertrude,  which  only 


ready  at  her  lips,  and  knew  from  Mrs.  Ellis's  deep  snoring 
that  it  was  not  her  hand  that  held  it—when  ^ie  observed 
that  all  day  long  no  troublesome  fly  was  ever  permitted  to 
•ipproach  her  pillow,  her  aching  head  was  relieved  by  hours 
•if  patient  bathing,  and  the  little  feet  that  were  never 
weary  were  always  noiseless  —she  realised  the  truth  that 
Dr.  Jeremy  had  brought  her  a  most  excellent  medicine. 
A  week  or  two  passed  away,  and  she  was  able  to  sit  up, 
(hough  not  yet  able  to  leave  her  room.  A  few  weeks  more, 
and  the  doctor  began  to  insist  upon  air  and  exercise. 
•'  Drive  out  two  or  three  times  every  day/'  said  he. 

"  How  can  I  ?  ''  said  EM  ily.  "George  has  so  much  to 
do,  it  will  be  very  inconvenient." 

"  Let  Gertrude  drive  you;  she  is  a  capital  hand." 

"  Gertrude,"  said  Emily,  smiling,  "  I  believe  you  are  a 
gr^at  favourite  of  the  doctor's;  he  thinks  you  can  do  any- 
thing. You  never  drove,  did  you  '' 

'•'  Hasn't  she  driver;  me  to  the  depot  every  clay  for  these 
six  weeks  ?'tj>  inquire'!  the  doctor. 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  "  asked  Emily. 

Upon  her  being  assured  this  was  the  case,  and  the  doctor 
insisting  that  there  was  no  danger.  Charlie  was  harnessed 
into  the  carriage,  and  Emily  and  Mrs.  Ellis  went  out  to 
drive  with  Gertrude,  an  experiment  which,  being  often 
repeated,  was  a  source  of  health  to  the  invalid,  and  pleas- 
ure to  them  all.  In  the  earlv  autumn,  when  Krnilv's 
health  was  restored,  old  Charlie  was  daily  called  into  rei|ni- 
sition;  sometimes  Mrs.  Eliis  accompanied  them.  hut.  as 
she  was  often  engaged  i'i  household  duties,  they  oft  we-nt 
by  themselves,  in  a  large,  old-fashioned  buggy,  and  Emily 


11  4  7777?  LA 


declared  that  Gertrude's  learning  to  drive  had  proved  a 
great  source  of  happiness.  Once  or  twice,  in  the  course  of 
the  summer  and  autumn,  Cert-rude  saw  again  the  lazy 
youth  whom  Dr.  Jeremy  had  stumhled  over  when  he  went 
to  steal  pears.  Once  he  came  and  sat  on  the  wall  while 
she  was  at  work  in  her  garden,  professed  himself  aston- 
ished at  her  activity,  talked  a  little  with  her  about  her 
flowers,  asked  some  questions  concerning  her  friend  I)r. 
Jeremy,  and  ended  l>y  requesting  to  know  her  name. 

Cert  rude,  Mushed;  she  was  sensitive;  about  her  name, 
and,  though  she  went  by  that,  of  Flint,  and  did  not  think 
much  about  it,  she  could  not  fail  to  remember,  when  the 
question  was  put  to  her  point-blank,  that  she  had  no  sur- 
name of  her  own.  Kmily  had  tried  to  find  Xan  (irant.  in 
order  to  lerrn  from  her  something  of  (Jertrude's  earlv 
history;  but  Nan  had  left  her  old  habitation,  ami  for  years 
nothing  had  been  heard  of  her. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

CHANGES. 

TT  was  the  twilight  of  a  sultry  September  day,  and, 
wearied  by  excessive  heat.  Kmilv  sat  on  the  front  piazza  of 
her  father's  house,  inhaling  a  delicious  and  refreshing 
breeze.  The  western  sky  was  still  streaked  with  brilliant 
lines  of  red,  the  lingering  effects  of  a  gorgeous  sunset, 
while  the  moon,  no\v  nearly  at  the  full,  and  triumphing  in 
the  close  of  dav  and  the  commencement  of  her  nightlv 
reiu'n,east  her  full  beams  upon  Fmiiy's  white  dress,  and 
Lrave  to  the  beautiful  hand  and  arm,  which,  escaning  from 
the  draperied  sleeve,  rested  on  the  side  of  her  rustic  arm- 
chair, the  semblance  of  polished  marble.  Ten  vears  had 
passed  since  Kmilv  was  introduced  to  the  reader;  and  vet, 
the  diallers  wrought  bv  time,  in;il  she 
er  than  on  her  first  meetin 
iivh. 

She  hud    even  then   expo  ienced    much  of 
li  fe.  and  learned   ho\\   t  o  d  i   i  :1  from  I  he  bit  Irr  dregs  of  sii  !'- 


THE  LAVPTJOITTKn.  115 


and  the  blessed  knowledge  she  had  gained  from  it,  had 
both  stamped  themselves  upon  her  countenance:  therefore, 
time  had  little  power  upon  her;  us  she  \\as  then  so  was  she 
now;  lovely  in  her  outward  appearar.ee,  and  still  more 
lovely  in  heart  and  life.  Still  a  dose  observer  might  per- 
ceive in  her  a  greater  degree  of  buoyancy  of  .-pirit,  keen- 
ness of  interest  in  what  was  going  on  about,  her,  and  evi- 
dent enjoyment  of  life,  and  tnis  was  due.  as  Emily 
acknowledged,  to  her  recent,  close  companionship  with  one 
to  whom  she  was  bound  by  the  warmest  all'ection,  and 
who,  by  her  sympathy,  her  constant,  devotion,  her  natural 
appreciation  of  the  entertaining  and  the  ludicrous,  and  the 
beautiful  and  true,  and  her  nnsparing  efforts  to  bring  her 
much-loved  friend  into  communion  with  everything  she 
herself  enjoyed,  had  called  into  phiv  faculties  which  blind- 
ness had  rendered  almos.i  dormant,  and  become,  what  Uncle 
True  bade  her  he,  eyes  to  her  hencfu<  tor. 

On  the  present  occasion,  as  Kmilysat.  alone,  her  thoughts 
were  sad.  She,  held  her  hea.d  a  little  on  one.  side,  in  a 
listening  attitude,  and.  as.  often  as  she  heard  the  sound  of 
the  gate  swinging  in  the  breeze,  she  would  .-tart,  while  a 
look  of  anxiety,  and  even  pain,  would  cross  her  features. 

At  length,  some  one  approaches  the  gate.  Xone  but 
Emily's  quick  ear  could  have  distinguished  the  light  step; 
but  she  hears  it  at  once,  and.  rising,  goes  to  meet  the  new 
comer,  whom  we  must,  pause  to  introduce,  for,  though  an 
old  acquaintance,  time  has  not  left  her  unchanged,  and  it 
would  be  hard  to  recognize  in  her  our  little  quondam 
Gertrude,  for  she  has  now  become!  a  young  lady.  She  is 
Rome  inches  taller  than  Km.'lv,  and  her  figure  is  slight  and 
delicate.  Her  complexion  is  dark,  but  (dear,  and  rendered 
brilliant  by  the  rosy  hue  that  Hushes  her  cheeks;  but  that 
maybe  the  effect  of  her  rapid  walk  from  the  railroad 
station. 

Gertrude's  eyes  have  retained  ihcir  old  lustre,  and  do  not 
now  look  too  large  for  her  face;  and,  if  her  mouth  be  less 
classically  formed  than  the  strict  rule  of  beauty  would 
commend,  it  is  atoned  for  bv  two  rows  of  small  pearly 
teeth,  which  are  as  regnl 
dress  of  s [lotted 
black  mantle  ih 
waist. 

Is  Gertrude  a  beauty  ?     .!3y  no  means.     Hers  is  a  face 


116  77//v    LAMrf, 

and  form  about  which  there  \voulil  he  a  thousand  different 
opinions,  and  few  would  pronounce  her  hcant  iful.  !>n^, 
there  are  faces  whose  ever-varying  expression  one  loves  TO 
watch—  tell-tale  fa^es,  1  hat  speak  itie  truth  and  proclaim 
the  sentiment  wit  hin  ;  faces  tha!  now  light  up  with  intelli- 
gence. now  beam  with  mirth,  now  sadden  at  the  tale  of 
sorrow,  now  burn  with  a  holv  indignation  for  that  which 
the  soul  abhors,  and  faces  saneiiiied  bv  the  divine  presence, 
when  the  heart  turns  from  th"  world  and  itself,  and  looks 
upward  in  the  spirit,  of  devotion.  Such  a  face  was 
Gertrude's.  There  are  forms  which,  though  neither  digni- 
iled  nor  fairy-like.,  possess  a  grace,  an  ease,  a  power  of 
moving  airily  in  their  sphere--  and  such  a  j'orm  was 
(lertrude's.  Whatever  cliarm  these  attractions  might,  give 
her  —  and  many  estimated  it  highly—it  was  greatly  en- 
hanced by  an  utter  rnconseiotisness,  on  her  part,  of  pos- 
sessing any  attrae!  ion..  ;;t  nil. 

As  she  perceived  Mis-  firaiiam  coining  to  inret  her,  she, 
quickened  her  pace,  and  joining  her  near  the  door-step, 
where  a  path  led  into  the  garden,  passed  her  arm  alTec- 
tionately  oyer  Kn.ily's  shoulder,  in  a  manner  which  the 
latter's  blindness,  and  Gertrude's  superior  height  and, 
ability  to  act  as  gii'de,  had  rendered  usual,  and  said,  while 
she  drew  the  shawl  closer  anuind  her  blind  friend.  "  Here 
I  am  again,  Miss  .Kmiiy!  Jiave  you  been  alone  since  i 
went,  away  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dear,  most  of  the  time,  and  have  been  worried  to 
think  yon  were  travelling  aUctt  in  Boston  this  excessive 
warm  day.'' 

"  It  has  not  hurt  me  in  the  least  :  1  only  enjoy  this  coo! 
bree/r  all  the  mon  —  it  is  such  a  contrast  to  the  heat  and 
dust  of  the  cit  v  !  " 

''  I>ut,  (iertv,"  said  llmilv,  slopping  short  in  their  walk, 
"what  are  you  corning  awav  I'loiii  the  hoit>!.'  for;'  Y(u; 
have  not  been  to  tea.  mv  clnid." 

'•  I  know  it,  1-Jnilv.  but    1  don't   want  any  supper." 


I'.milv  said,  "'Well,  (lertruue.  have  you  nothing  to  tell 
me  ?  '" 

"  <>  yes,  a  great  deal,  but  - 

"P.ut  you  knou  it  v.il  '  id  news  to  MIC,  and  so  yoi; 
don't  like  to  speak  it  ;  i-  ii  no!  -"?" 

"  '  ou^ht,  not  to  havf  the  vanity,  dear  Emily,  to  think  it 


TITK  LAMl'f.lt.'IfTKK.  117 

woir.ld  trouble  you  very  much;  but  ever  since  last  evening, 
when  I  told  you  what,  Mr.  W.  said,  and  what  I  had  in  my 
mind,  and  you  seemed  to  fed  so  badly  at  the  thought  of 
cur  being  separated,  i  have  fell  almost  doubtful  what  it 
was  right  for  me  to  do." 

"And  1.  on  the  other  hand,  Gertrude,  have  been  re- 
proaching myself  for  allowing  you  to  have  any  knowledge 
of  my  feeling  in  the  matter,  lest  1  should  be  influencing 
you  against  your  duty.  1  feel  that  you  are  right,  Gertrude, 
and  that,  instead  of  opposing,  L  ought  to  do  everything  I 
can  to  forward  your  plans. 

"  Dear  Emily!  "  said  Gertrude,  "if  you  thought  so  from 
what  1  told  you  yesterday,  you  would  be  convinced  had 
you  observed  all  that  I  have  to-day." 

''  \Vliv  !  Are  matters  any  worse  than  they  were  at  Mrs. 
Sullivan's?" 

"  Much  worse  than  I  described  to  you.  T  di.l  not  then 
know  all  that  she  had  to  contend  with;  but  1  have  been  at 
their  house  since  1  left  home  ibis  morning  (for  Mr.  W.  did 
not  detain  me  live  minutes),  and  it  does  not  seetn  safe  for 
such  a  delicate  woman  as  Mrs.  Sullivan  to  be  alone  with 
Mr.  Cooper,  now  that  his  mind  is  in  such  a  state." 

"  But  do  you  think  you  can  do  any  good  ?  " 

"I  know  I  can,  dear  Emily;!  can  manage  him  much 
better  than  she  can,  and  do  more  for  his  comfort.  He  is 
like  a  child  now,  and  full  of  whims.  When  lie  can  be  in- 
dulged, Mrs.  Sullivan  will  please  him  at  any  amount  of  in- 
convenience, and  even  danger  to  herself,  not  only  because 
lie  is  her  father,  and  she  feels  it,  her  duly,  but  she  is  afraid 
of  him,  he  is  so  irritable  and  violent.  She  tells  me  he  often 
takes  it  into  his  head  to  do  the  strangest  things,  such  as 
going  out  late  at  night,  when  it  is  unsafe,  ami  sleeping 
with  his  window  wide  open." 

"Poor  woman  !"  exclaimed  Emily;  "  what  does  she  do 
in  such  cases  ? '" 

"  I  can  tell  you,  Emily,  for  I  saw  an  instance  of  it  to-day. 
When  1  went  in  this  morning,  he  was  preparing  to  make 
a  coal-lire  in  the  grate,  notwithstanding  the  heat,  which 
was  becoming  intense  in  the  city." 

"And  Mrs.  Sullivan?  "  said   Emily. 

"  Was  sitting  on  the  lower  stair,  in  the  front  entry  cry- 
ing." 

'-'Poor  thing!'"  murmured   Emily. 


118  Tin-:  i.  1.1/7 './,/'. 7/7 vv/v. 

"Sin1  could  do  nothing  with  him,"  continued  Ge,r.ituJ{», 
"  and  had  gi  veil  up  in  despair.'' 

"She  oiiu'ht  to  have  a  strong  woman  or  a  man  to  take 
fare  of  him." 

'•'That  is  \\hai  she  dreads  worse  than  anything.  She 
savs  it  would  kill  IHT  to  .see  him  unkindly  treated,  as  he 
Aould  bo  sure  to  be  hy  a  stranger;  and.  besides,  she  shrinks 
from  the  idea  of  ha\  ing  anyone  in  the  house  to  whom  she 
is  unaccustomed.  She  is  very  neat  and  particular  in  all 
her  arrangements.  h;;<  always  done  her  work  herself,  and 
declares  .-he  would  sooner  admit  a  wild  beast  into  her  fam- 
ily t  han  an  I  ri-h  girl.  " 

"  Her  new  hou.-e  has  not  been  a  source  of  much  pleasure 
to  her  \  et .  has  it  ';  " 

"Oh.no.  She  was  saying  to-day  how  strange  it  seemed 
when  she  had  been  looking  forward  so  long  to  the  comfort 
of  a  new  tenement,  thai,  ju-t  as  she  had  moved  in  a'ld  got 
everything  furnished  to  her  mind,  she  should  h«.ve  this 
great,  t  rial." 

''It  seems  si  range  lo  me,"  said  Emily, ''that  she  did  not 
sooner  perceive  its  approach  !  noticed  when  i  went  with 
you  the  failure  in  the  old  man's  intellect.'" 

'*  I  had  observed  it  for  a  long  time,"  remarked  (iertrude, 
"but  never  spoke  of  it  to  her:  and  I  do  not  think  she  svas 
in  the  least  aware  of  it,  until  about  their  removal,  when  the 
breaking-lip  of  old  associations  affected  his  mind." 

"  Sad  thing!  "  said    Kmilv.      "  How  old  is  hi!?" 

"1  believe  he  i.-  \  ei'v  old:  I  remember  .Mrs.  Sullivan's 
telling  me  some  time  ago  that  he  was  near  eighty." 

"Is  he  so  old  as  that?  Then  I  am  not  surprised  that 
these  changes  have  made  him  childish." 

"  (>ii.  no.  Melancholy  as  it  is,  we  may  come  to  the  same 
if  we  live  to  his  a_f ' ;  and  as  he  -i  cms  generally  contented, 
1  do  not  lament  it  so  much  on  his  own  account  as  .Mrs. 
Sulli  van's." 

••  |)oc-  it  seem  hard  fur  her  to  hear  up  under  it  ? '' 

'•  1  think  it  wotiM  riot  be  if  she  were  well:  but  there  is 
Borne;  ninn  t  he  mai  ter  u  it  h  1,  r.  and  I  fear  it  is  more  serious 
than  she  allows,  for  -1  e  h  oks  very  pale,  and  has  had  several 
alarming  ill  I  ly." 

L-  Ha-  ,-hc  eon-ii ;  ian  ?  " 


THE  LA  MT1.  KJUTKil  1  1  9 

she  takes  no  care  of  herself,  and  that  is  one  reason  I  wish 
to  be  in  town  as  soon  as  possible.  1  am  anxious  to  have 
Dr.  Jeremy  see  her,  and  i  can  bring  it  about  without  her 
knowing  that  he  comes  on  her  account.''' 

"  You  speak  confidently  of  being  in  town,  Gertrude;  so 
I  suppose  it  is  all  arranged." 

"  Oh.  I  have  not  told  yon,  have  I,  about  my  visit  to  Mr. 
W.  ?  Dear,  good  man.  how  grateful  1  ought  to  be  to  him! 
He  has  promised  me  the  situation.''' 

''•'I  had  no  doubt  he  would,  J'rom  what  you  told  me  he 
said  to  you  at  Mrs.  Bruce's." 

"  You  hadn't,  really!  \Vhy,  Emily,  I  was  almost  afraid 
to  mention  It  to  him.  I  couldn't  believe  he  would  have 
sufficient  confidence  in  me;  but  he  was  so  kind!  1  hardly 
dare  tell  you  what  he  said  about  my  capacity  to  teach,  you 
"will  think  me  so  vain." 

"  You  need  not  tell  me,  my  darling;  I  know  from  his 
own  lips  how  highly  he  appreciates  your  ability." 

"  Dear  Uncle  True  always  wanted  me  to  he  a  teacher;  it 
was  the  height  of  his  ambition.  He  would  be  pleased, 
wouldn't  he,  dear  Emily  ?" 

"  Yes,  proud  to  see  yon  assistant  in  a  school  like  Mr. 
AV.'s.  But  he  would  think  as  I  do,  that  you  are  undertak- 
ing too  much.  You  expect  to  be  occupied  in  the  school 
the  greater  part  of  everv  morning,  and  vet  you  propose  to 
be  nurse  to  Mrs.  Sullivan,  and  guard  ian  to  her  poor  old 
father.  My  dear  child,  you  are  not  used  to  so  much  care, 
and  1  shall  he  constantly  troubled  for  you,  lest  your  own 
health  and  strength  give  way." 

"  Oh,  dear  Emily,  there  is  no  cause  for  any  anxiety  on 
my  account.  I  am  well  and  strong,  and  capable  of  all  that 
1  have  planned  for  myself.  My  only  trouble  is  in  leaving 
you;  and  I  fear  you  will  miss  me,  and  perhaps  feel  as 


"I  know  what  yon  would  say,  Gertrude.  You  need  not 
fear  that;  1  am  sure  of  your  affection.  1  am  sure  you  love 
me  next  to  your  duty,  and  I  would  not  that  yon  should. 
give  me  the  preference.  So  dismiss  that  thought  from 
your  mind,  and  do  not  believe  that  1  would  be  selfish 
enough  to  desire  to  retain  you.  I  only  wish,  my  dear,  that 
for  the  present  vou  had  not  thought  of  entering  the  school. 
You  might  then  have  gone  to  Mrs.  Sullivan's,  stayed  as 
long  as  needed,  and  perhaus  found,  by  the  time  wo  ar<? 


120 


ready  to  start  on  o;:r  southern  toi:r,  ti;;it  you:-  se^vk'C* 
could  he  dispensed  witJi;  in  which  cas;1  you  could  accom- 
pany us  on  a  joiin.ev  which,  1  am  Mire  your  health  will  by 
by  that  time  require." 

••  l>ut,  dear  Emily,  how  could  I  do  that?  I  could  not 
propose  myself  as  a  visitor  to  .Mrs.  SuUivan,  however  use 
ful  1  might  intend  to  be  to  her;  nor  could  1  speak  of  nurs 
ing  to  a  woman  who  will  not  confess  that  she  is  ill.  It 
seemed  to  me  impossible,  with  nil  the  delicuicv  and  tact  in 
the  world,  to  bring  i:  about;  for  I  have  been  with  you  so 
long  that  Mrs.  Sullivan  thinks  me  entirelv  unfitted  for  her 
primitive  wav  of  life.  It  was  onlv  when  Mr.  \\  .  spoke  of 
his  wanting  an  assistant,  and  hinted  that  he  should  like  to 
employ  me  in  that  capacitv,  that  the  present  plan  occurred 
to  me.  1  knew  if  1  told  Mrs.  Sullhan  that  1  was  engaged 
to  teach  there,  and  that  you  were  not  coming  to  town,  and 
represented  to  her  that  I  wanied  a  hoarding-place  for  the 
winter,  she  would  insist  that  1  should  go  nowhere  else.'' 

'•'And  it  proved  as  yon  expected?" 

••'  Exactly;  and  she  showed  so  much  pleasure  at  the 
thought  of  my  bein'j'  with  her,  that  I  realised  still  more 
how  much  she  needed  some  one." 

"Shi.-  will  have  a  treasure  in  you.  dertrude." 

''.No,  indeed!  The  feeling  !  have  is.  that  however  little 
I  may  be  able  to  accomplish,  it  will  lie  more  than  anyone 
else  could  do  for  Mrs.  Sullnan.  She  has  lived  so  retired 
that  she  has  not  an  intimate  friend  in  the  city,  and  I  do 
Hot  know  of  anvone.  except,  mvself.  whom  she  would  will- 
ini:lv  admit  under  her  roof.  Mie  is  used  to  me,  and  loves 
me;  1  am  no  restrain!  upon  her,  and  she  allows  me  to  assist 
in  whatever  she  is  doing,  alt  hough  she  often  savs  I  live  a 
ladv's  life  now,  and  am  not  u.-ed  to  work.  She  knows,  too, 
that  1  have  an  influence  over  he]-  father;  and  I  //<'/'/•-- 
st  ran  ire  a-  it  ma  v  seem  to  von  - 


1  am  more  of  a  stranger 
anot  her  cause  ;   he  asso- 
:   for  we  were   for  some 
:  he  house   at    t  he  same 
illgil    me    that    the  corre- 
:.      Since    his    mind    has, 
been  s.u  weak,  he  thinks  continuailv  of  Willie,  and  i  can  ut 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  121 

any  moment,  however  irritable  lie  may  be,  make  him  calm 
ami  quiet,  by  proposing  to  tell  him  the  latest  news  from 
his  grandson.  It  does  not  matter  how  often  I  repeat  the 
contents  of  the  last,  letter,  it  is  ahvavs  new  to  him:  and 
you  have  no  idea.  Kmily,  what  power  this  gives  me.  Mrs. 
Sullivan  sees  how  easily  I  can  guide  his  thoughts,  ami  I 
noticed  what  a  load  of  eare  was  taken  from  her  mind  by 
having  me  there  to-day.  She  looked  so  happy  when  I 
came  away  to-night,  and  spoke  so  hopefullv  of  the  comfort 
it  would  be  during  the  winter  to  have  me  with  her,  that  I 
felt  repaid  for  any  sacrifice  it  has  been  to  me.  Hut  when 
1  came  home,  and  sa\v  you.  and  thought  of  your  going  so 
far  away,  and  of  the  length  of  time  it  might  he  before  1 
should  live  with  you  again,  1  felt  as  if—  (Jertv  could 

say  no  more.  She  laid  her  head  on  Emily's,  shoulder,  and 
wept. 

Emily  soothed  her  with  the  greatest  tenderness.  "  \Ve 
have  been  very  happy  together,  (.Jerty,"  said  she,  "'and  I 
shall  miss  you  sadly:  half  the  enjoyment  of  my  life  has  of 
late  years  been  borrowed  from  you.  But  I  never  loved  you 
half  so  well  as  I  do  now,  at  the  time  we  must  part:  for  I 
see  in  the  sacrifice  you  are  making  of  yourself  one  of  the 
noblest  and  most  important  traits  of  character  a  woman 
can  possess.  1  know  how  much  you  love  the  Sullivans.  and 
you  have  certainly  every  reason  for  being  attached  to  them; 
but  your  leaving  us  at  this  time,  and  renouncing  without 
a  murmur  the  southern  tour  from  which  you  expected  so 
much  pleasure,  proves  that  my  (lertv  is  the  brave,  u'ood 
girl  1  ahvavs  hoped  and  prayed  she  miirht  become  You 
are  in  the  path  of  duty,  (iertrude.  and  will  be  rewarded  by 
the  approbation  of  your  own  conscience,  if  in  no  other 
way." 

As  Emily  finished  speaking,  they  reached  a  corner  of  the 
garden,  and  were  met  by  a  servant-girl,  who  announced 
that  Mrs.  Bruce  ami  her  son  were  in  the  parlour,  and  had 
asked  for  them  both. 

"  Did  you  get  her  buttons  in  town.  Gertrude?  "  inquired 
Emily. 

"  Yes,  I  found  some  that  were  an  excellent  match  for  the 
dress;  she  probably  wants  to  know  what  success  1  had; 
but  how  can  I  go  in  ?  " 

"  I  will  return  to  the  house  with  Kale,  and  you  can  go 
in  af  *he  side-door,  and  reach  voiir  own  room  without  being 


122  THE  LAMM. 

BOOH.  Twill  excuse  you  to  Mrs.  Bruce  for  the  present ;  and 
when  you  have  bathed  your  eyes,  and  feel  composed,  von 
can  conic  in  and  report  concerning  the  errand  she  entrusted 
to  you." 


CHAPTER    XX. 

FKUSTRATKl)    PLAN'S. 

"WHEN  Gertrude  entered  the  room  in  half-an-hour,  lior 
face  showed  no  mental  distress.  Mrs.  .Bruce  nodded  to  her 
good  naturodly  from  a  corner  of  the  sofa.  Mr.  Bruce  rose 
and  offered  his  chair  at  the  same  time  that  Mr.  (iraham 
pointed  to  a  vacant  window-seat  near  him,  and  said  kindly, 
'*  Hero  is  a  place  for  you,  (iertrude." 

Declining  these  civilities,  slit1  withdrew  to  an  ottoman 
near  an  open  glass  door,  where  she  was  im  medial  el  v  joined 
by  Mr.  Bruce,  who,  seating  himself  in  an  indolent  altitude 
upon  the  upper  row  of  a  flight  of  steps  whirl)  led  from  the 
window  to  the  garden,  commenced  conversation  with  her. 

Mr.  Bruce — the  gentleman  who,  some  years  before,  wore 
a  velvet  smoking-cap,  and  took  afternoon  naps  in  the  grass 
—  had  recently  returned  from  Kurope,  and,  glorifying  in 
the  renown  acquired  from  a  moustache,  a  1'Yeneh  tailor, 
and  the  possession  of  a  handsome  property  in  his  own  right, 
now  viewed  himself  with  more  complacency  than  ever. 

''So  you've  been  in  Boston  all  dav.  Miss  Flint  ?" 

"  Yes,  nearly  all  day." 

"Didn't  you  find  it  distressingly  warm?" 

"  Somewhat  so.'' 

"  1  tried  logo  in  to  attend  to  some  business  that  mother 
\vas  anxious  about,  and  even  went  down  to  the  depot,  ;  but 
I  hud  to  give  it  up.'' 

"  Wore  you  overpowered  by  the  heat?" 

"  I  was." 

"How  unfortunate!"  remarked  Gertrude,  in  a  half- 
com passionate,  half-ironical  tone  of  voice. 

Mr.  Bruce  looked  up,  to  jud^e  from  her  countenance 
whet  her  she  were  serious  or  not ;  but  i  here  being  little  light 
iu  the  ruoiu,  on  account  of  the  warmth  of  the  evening,  ho 


THE  LAMPfJUllTKR.  123 

Could  not  decide  the  question,  and  then-fore  replied,  "  1 
dislike  the  he.it,  Miss  Gertrude,  und  why  should  I  expose 
myself  to  it  unnecessarily:"' 

"  Oh,  i  beg  your  purdon  ;  I  thought  you  spoke  of  impor- 
tant business. " 

"  Only  some  affair  of  my  mother's.  Nothing  I  felt  any 
,interest  in,  and  she  took  tlie  state  of  the  weather  for  an 
ixeuse.  If  I  hud  known  that  you  were  in  the  cars,  as  I 
have  since  heard.  I  should  certainly  have  persevered,  in 
order  to  have  had  the  pleusuie  of  walking  down  Washing, 
ton  Street  with  you." 

"  I  did  not  go  down  Washington  Street." 

"But  you  would  have  done  so  with  a  suitable  escort," 
suggested  the  young  man. 

"If  I  had  gone  out  of  my  way  for  the  sake  of  accom- 
panying my  escort,  the  escort  would  have  been  a  very 
doubtful  advantage,''  said  Gertrude,  laughing. 

"  How  very  practical  you  are,  Miss  Gertrude!  Do  you 
mean  to  say  that,  when  you  go  to  the  city,  you  always  have 
a  settled  plan  of  operations,  and  never  swerve  from  your 
course  ?" 

"By  no  means.  I  trust  I  arn  not  difficult  to  influence 
when  there  is  a  sufficient  motive.'' 

The  young  man  bit  his  b'p.  "  Then  you  never  act  with- 
out a  motive:  pray,  what  is  your  motive  in  wearing  that 
broad-brimmed  hat  when  you  are  at  work  in  the  garden  ? '' 

"  It  is  an  old  habit,  adopted  some  years  ago  from  motives 
of  convenience,  and  still  adhered  to,  in  spite  of  later  inven- 
tions, which  would  certainly  be  a  better  protection  from 
the  sun.  I  must  plead  guilty,  I  fear,  to  a  little  obstinacy 
in  my  partiality  for  that  old  hat." 

"  Why  noc  confess,  Miss  Gertrude,  that  you  wear  it  in 
order  to  look  fanciful  and  picturesque,  so  that  the  neigh- 
bours' slumbers  are  disturbed  by  the  thoughts  of  it  ?  My 
own  morning  dreams,  for  instance,  are  so  haunted  by  that 
hat,  as  seen  in  companv  with  its  owner,  that  I  am  daily 
drawn,  as  if  by  magnetic  attraction,  in  the  direct  ion  of  the 
garden.  You  will  have  a  heavy  account  to  settle  with 
Morpheus,  one  of  these  days,  for  defrauding  him  of  his 
rights;  and  vour  conscience  too  will  sulTer  for  injuries  to 
my  health,  sustained  by  continued  exposure  to  early  dews." 

"It  is  hard  to  condemn  me  for  such  unintentional  mis- 
chief J  but  since  I  aui  to  exuerieiice  so  much  future 


124  THE  LAMPLIQmjEIt. 

on  account  of  your  morning  visits,  I  shall  take  upon  my« 
self  the  responsibility  of  forbidding  them.'' 

"  Oh,  you  wouldn't  be  so  unkiiul! — especially  after  all 
the  pains  1  have  taken  to  impart  to  you  the  little  1  Know 
of  horticulture." 

"  Very  little  I  think  it  must  have  been;  or  I  have  but  a 
poor  memory,"  said  (Jertrucle,  laughing. 

"Have  you  forgotten  the  puins  1  took  yesterday  to  ac- 
quaint you  with  the  different  varieties  of  roses?  Don't 
you  remember  how  much  1  had  to  say  of  damask  roses  and 
iamask  bloom;  and  ho\v  before  1  iinished,  1  could  nut  tind 
words  enough  in  praise  of  blushes,  especially  such  sweet 
and  natural  ones  as  met  my  eyes  while  I  was  speaking?" 

"I  know  you  talked  a  great  deal  of  nonsense.  1  hope 
you  don't  think  1  listened  to  it  all." 

"' Oh,  Miss  (Sertrude!  It  is  of  no  use  to  say  flattering 
things  to  you;  you  alwavs  regard  my  compliments  us 
jokes." 

"•  1  have  told  yon,  several  times,  that  it  was  most  useless 
to  waste  so  much  ilattery  upon  me.  1  am  glad  you  are 
beginning  to  realise  it." 

"  Well,  then,  to  ask  a  serious  question,  where  were  you 
this  morning  at  half-past  seven  ?" 

''On  my  wav  to  ISoston  in  the  cars." 

"Is  it  possible  ?—  so  early !  Why,  I  thought  you  Avent 
at  ten.  Then,  all  the  time  1  was  watching  by  the  garden 
wall  to  say  good-morning,  you  were  half-a-do/:en  miles 
away.  I  wish  1  had  not  wasted  that  hour  so;  I  might  lia-ve 
spent  it  in  sleeping."" 

"  Very  true,  it  is  a  great  pity." 

"And  then  hall'-an-hoiir  more  here  this  evening!  How 
same  you  to  keep  me  waiting  so  long?" 

"  I  was  not  aware  of  doing  so.  i  certainly  did  not  take 
your  visit  to  myself." 

"  My  visit  certainly  was  not  meant   for  anyone  else." 

"  lien,"  said  Mr.  (irahain,  approaching  rather  abruptly, 
ami  taking  part  in  the  con  versa!  ion.  "are  von  fond  of  irar- 
deniiiLT?  1  thought  I  heard  you  ju.-t  now  speaking  of 
roses  ?  " 

"Yes.  sir;  Miss  Flint  and  1  were  having  quite  a  discus- 
sion upon  (lowers  -  roses  especially.'' 

(icrtrudc,  availing  her.-cll'  of  Mr.  (irahatn'ri  approach, 
tried  to  escape  and  join  the  ladies  at  the  s.ul'a;  lust  Mr. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  12f, 

Bruce,  who  had  risen  on  Mr.  Graham's  address  nu  liim, 
saw  her  intention,  and  frustrated  it  by  placing  himself  in 
the  way,  so  that  she  could  nut  pass  him  without  positive 
rudeness.  Mr.  Graham  continued,  "  I  propose  placing  a 
small  fountain  in  the  vicinity  of  Miss  Flint's  flower  garden ; 
won't  you  walk  down  with  me,  and  give  your  opinion  of 
my  plan  ?  " 

"  Isn't  it  too  dark,  sir,  to — 

"  Xo,  no,  not  at  all ;  there  is  ample  light  for  our  purpose. 
This  way,  if  you  please;''  and  Mr.  Bruce  was  compelled  to 
follow  where  Mr.  (Iraham  led,  though,  in  spite  of  his  ac- 
quaintance witli  Paris  manners,  he  made  a  wry  face,  and 
shook  his  head  menacingly. 

Gertrude  was  now  permitted  to  relate  to  Mrs.  Bruce  the 
results  of  the  shopping  which  she  had  undertaken  on  her 
account,  and  display  the  buttons,  wnich  proved  very  satis- 
factory. The  gentlemen,  soon  returning,  took  seats  near 
the  sofa,  and  the  eonversat ion  became  general. 

"Mr.  Graham,"  said  Mrs.  Bruce,"!  hare  been  asking 
Emily  about  your  visit  to  the  south;  and  !  think  it  will 
be  a  charming  trip." 

"  1  hope  so,  madame;  it  will  be  an  excellent  thing  for 
Emily,  and  as  Gertrude  has  never  travelled,  I  anticipate  a 
great  deal  of  pleasure  for  her." 

"  Ah!  then  you  are  to  be  of  the  party.  Mis-  "Flint  ?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Mr.  Graham,  without  giving  Gertrude 
a  chance  to  speak  for  herself;  "we  depend  upon  Gertrude; 
couldn't  get  along  without  her." 

"It  will  be  delightful  for  you,"  continued  Mrs.  Bruce, 
her  eyes  still  fixed  on  Gertrude. 

"I  did  expert  to  go  with  Mr.  and  Miss  Graham,"  an- 
swered Gertrude,  and  looked  forward  to  the  journev  witl: 
the  greatest  eagerness:  but  I  have  just  decided  that  1 
must  remain  in  Boston  this  winter." 

"What  are  you  talking  about,  Gertrude?"  asked  Mr. 
Graham.  "  What  do  vou  mean  ?  This  is  all  news  to  me." 

"And  to  me,  too,  sir,  or  1  should  have  informed  you  of 
it  before.  I  supposed  vou  expected  me  to  accompanv  von. 
and  there  is  nothing  I  should  like  *o  much.  I  .-tumid 
have  told  vou  In/ fore  of  th"  circumstances  that  !io\v  make 
it  impossible.;  b'.it  thw  :\"\;  vif  (jui'e  recent  occurrence." 

"But  we  can't  give  you  up,  Gertrude.;   L  won't  hear  of 


126  THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 

such  n,  tiling;  you  must  go  with  us  in  spite  of  circum- 
stances.v 

"  I  fear  I  shall  not  ho  able."  said  Gertrude,  smiling 
pleasantly,  hut  still  retaining  her  firmness  of  expression; 
"you're  very  kind,  sir,  to  wish  it." 

"  Wish  it ! — 1  tell  yon  I  insist  upon  it.  You  are  under 
my  care,  ehihl,  and  i  have  a  right  to  say  what  YOU  shall 
do." 

Mr.  Graham  was  excited.  Gertrude  and  Emily  looked 
troubled,  hut  neither  spoke. 

"(Jive  me  your  reasons,  if  you  have  any."  said  Mr. 
Graham,  vehemently,  "  and  let  me  know  what  has  put  this 
strange  notion  into  your  head." 

"  J  will  explain  it  to  you  to  morrow,  sir." 

"To-morrow!  1  want  to  know  now.  Tell  me  what  all 
this  means  ?  .Here  I  plan  my  business,  ami  make  all  my 
arrangements,  to  give  up  this  winter  to  travelling-- not  so 
much  on  my  own  account  as  to  please  both  of  you,  and, 
just  as  all  is  settled,  and  we  are  on  the  point  of  starting, 
Gertrude  says  that  she  has  concluded  not  to  go." 

Emily  undertook  to  explain  Gertrude's  motives,  and 
ended  by  expressing  her  approbation  of  her  course.  As 
soon  as  she  had  iinished.  Mr  Graham,  who  had  listened 
very  impatiently,  and  interrupted  her  with  many  a  "  pish  !  " 
and  "pshaw!"  burst  forth  with  redoubled  indignation. 
"So  Gertv  prefers  the  Snllivan.s  to  us.  and  you  seem  to 
encourage  her  in  it!  1  should  like  to  know  what  they 
have  ever  done  for  her.  compared  with  what  1  have  done." 

"  They  have  been  friends  of  hers  for  years,  and  now 
that  thev  are  in  great  distress,  she  does  not  feel  as  if  she 
could  leave  them,  and  1  confess  1  do  not  wonder  at  her 
decision." 

"I  do.  She  prefers  to  m.ii\e  a  slave  of  herself  in  Mr. 
W.'s  school,  and  a  greater  slave  in  Mrs.  Sullivan's  family, 
instead  of  staving  \\iih  :,•',  where  s'ie  has  been  treated 
like  a  ladv,  and  like  one  of  our  own  family.'" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Graham!"  said  Gertrude,  earnestly,  "it  is 
not  a  mat ter  of  choice,  except  as  I  feel  it  to  be  a  duty." 

"  And  \\bal  makes  it  a  dnt\  !'  .lu-l  her;uise  \ou  used 
i\f  \\iili  them,  and  ilia'  l>ov  out.  in  <'a]rnMa  has  sent 
Innne  a  eaimT-  hair  sear!'  and  a  eji^r  I'nll  of  miserable 
[••  bi  rd -.  a;,,  i  written  yon  !.•!  ter-.  \  on  must  forfeit  voiir 
:  interest  lo  take  care  of.  his  sick  relations!  (,'an  their 


T11K  LAUrLUUlTER.  127 


claim  compare  with  mine  ?  Haven't  I  given  yon  the  best 
of  educations,  and  spared  not  expense  for  your  improve- 
ment and  happiness  ?  " 

••'  I  did  not  think,  sir,"  said  Gertrude,  humbly,  and  yet 
with  dignity,  "of  counting  up  the  favours  J  had  received, 
and  measuring  my  conduct  accordingly.  In  that  case  my 
obligations  to  you  are  immense,  and  you  would  certainly 
have  the  greatest  claim  upon  my  services.'' 

"Services!  J  don't  want  your  scri'lrex,  child.  Mrs.  Ellis 
can  do  quite  as  well  as  you  can  for  Emily,  or  \,\e  either. 
but  I  like  your  com  pun  if,  and  think  it  is  very  ungrateful 
in  you  to  leave  us,  as  you  talk  of  doing." 

"  :  Father,"  said  Kmily,"!  thought  the  object  in  giving 
Cert  rude  a  good  education  was  to  make  her  independent 
of  all  the  world,  and  not  .simply  dependent  upon  us." 

"  Kmily,"  said  Mr.  (Iraham,  "  I  tell  you  it  is  a  matter  of 
feeling  —  you  don't  seem  to  look  upon  the  thing  in  the 
light  I  do;  but  you  are  both  against  me,  and  I  won't  talk 
any  more  about  it." 

>So  saying,  Mr.  (Jniham  went  to  his  study,  and  was  seen 
no  more  that  night. 

Poor  Gertrude!  Mr.  f!  rah  am,  who  had  been  so  gener- 
ous, who  had  seldom  or  ever  spoken  harshly  to  her,  and 
had  always  treated  her  with  great  indulgence,  was  now 
deeply  offended.  He  had  called  her  ungrateful;  he  felt 
that  she  had  abused  his  kindness,  and  believed  that  he 
and  Emily  stood  in  her  imagination  secondary  to  other 
far  less  warm-hearted  friends.  Deeply  wounded,  she 
hastened  to  say  good-night  to  the  no  less  atllicted  Emily, 
and,  seeking  her  own  room,  gave  way  to  feelings 
caused  her  a  sleepless  night. 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

SKI.riSII  N  KSS. 


1-2^  Till-:  LAMl'Li 

rebelled  at  the  treatment  she  received,  she  was  then  too 
young  to  reason  upon  the  subject,  or  come  to  any  con- 
clusions upon  the  hardness  and  crueltv  of  humunitv;  and, 
hud  she  done  so,  such  impressions  would  have  been 
effaced  in  the  home  of  her  kind  foster-father. 

And  having,  through  a  similar  providence,  found  in 
Kinily  additional  proof  of  the  fact  that  the  tie  of  kindred 
blood  is  not  always  needed  to  hind  heart  to  heart  in  the 
closest  bonds  of  sympathy  and  affection,  she  had  hitherto, 
in  her  unusually  happy  experience,  felt  none  of  the  evils 
that  spring  from  dependence  upon  the  bounty  of  strangers. 

Krom  Mr.  (Iraham  she  had  until  now  experienced  onlv 
kindness.  On  her  first  coming  to  live  with  them,  he  had 
taken  little  notice  of  her,  so  long  as  she  was  quiet,  well- 
mannered,  and  no  trouble  to  anvbodv,  had  been  indif- 
ferent about  her.  lie  observed  that  Kmilv-  was  fond  of 
the  girl,  and.  though  he  wondered  at  her  taste,  was  irlad 
that  she  should  be  indulged.  But  he  soon  noticed  in  his 
daughter's  favourite  a  quickness  of  mind  and  propriety  of 
deportment  which  created  an  interest  in  her  that  soon  in- 
creas"d  to  positive  partiality,  especially  when  he  discov- 
ered her  taste  for  gardening  and  her  love  of  flowers. 
.Kmilv  formed  no  plan  as  to  Gertrude's  education  to  which 
she  did  not  obtain  a  ready  assent  from  her  father:  and 
Gertrude,  grateful  for  so  much  bounty,  spared  no  pains  to 
evidence  her  sense  of  obligation  and  regard,  by  treating 
Mr.  (iraham  with  the  greatest  respect. 

But.  unfortunately  for  the  continuance  of  these  amica- 
ble relations.  Mr.  (iraham  had  neither  the  disinterested 
forbearing  spirit  of  I'ncle  True,  nor  the  saintly  patience 
and  self-sacrifice  of  Kmilv.  Mr.  (Iraham  was  a  liberal 
and  highly  respectable  man:  he  had  the  reputation  of 
being  a  high-minded  and  honourable  man:  and  his  con- 
duct justified  this  report  of  him.  But  he  was  a  >•<•///>•// 
man.  and  often  took  one-sided  views.  lie  had  supported 
and  educated  Gertrude-  he  liked  her--  she  was  the  person 
whom  he  preferred  fora  t  ravelling  companion  for  himself 
and  Kmilv  and  he  eit  her  I'l.n'il  not  or  inmiil  not  see  that 
her  duty  lav  in  ai:  v  other  direct  ion. 

|)iiriic.r  a  \\akfful  and  resile  -  nivht.  Gertrude  rv- 
,:>•,«<;  and  considered  ner  o\\  n  oircum-tanees.  At  !ii>t 
her  onl  y  emotion  \\  as  one  <  >f  grief,  but  that  gradually  sn  b- 
sided,  as,  other  bitter  thought*  ro.-e  up  iu  her  mind.. 


THE  LA.VPL/GirrRR.  120 

"  What  right,"  thought  she,  "has  Mr.  Graham  to  treat,  me 
this  way — to  toll  me  1  xlutH  go  with  him  on  his  southern 
journey,  and  speak  as  if  my  other  friends  were  ciphers  in 
his  estimation,  and  ought  to  he  in  my  own?  Does  he 
consider  my  freedom  is  lobe  the  price  of  my  education, 
and  am  I  no  longer  able  to  say  yes  or  no?  Kmily  does 
not  think  so;  Emily,  who  loves  ami  needs  me  a  thousand 
times  more  than  Mr.  Graham,  thinks  1  have  acted  right Iv, 
and  she  assured  me  that  it  was  my  duty  to  carry  out  the 
plans  I  had  formed.  And  my  solemn  promise  to  Willie! 
is  that  to  he  held  for  nothing?  No,  it  would  he  tyranny 
in  Mr.  Graham  to  insist  on  my  remaining  with  them,  and 
1  am  glad  I  have  resolved  to  hreak  away  from  such  thral- 
dom. Besides,  I  was  educated  to  teach,  and  M.r.  W '.  says 
it  is  important  to  commence  while  my  studies  are  fresh  in 
my  mind."  So  much  said  pride;  and  Gertrude's  heart 
listened  awhile  to  such  suggestions.  But  not  long.  She 
had  accustomed  herself  to  view  the  conduct  of  others  in 
that  spirit  of  charity  which  she  desired  should  he  e.v-r- 
cised  towards  her  own,  and  milder  thoughts  took  the  place 
of  these  excited  feelings. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  she  to  herself,  "it  is,  after  all.  pure 
kindness  that  prompted  Mi-.  Graham's  interference,  lie- 
may  think  as  Emily  dot's,  that  I.  am  undertaking  too  much. 
It  is  impossible  for  him  to  know  how  strong  mv  motives 
tre,  how  deep  I  consider  my  obligations  to  the  Sullivans, 
«uul  how  much  I  am  needed  by  them  at  this  time.  1  had 
Ho  idea,  either,  that  1  was  to  be  one  of  the  party  to  the 
south;  for  though  Emily  talked  as  if  she  took  it  for 
granted,  Mr.  Graham  never  asked  me  to  go,  and  1  could 
not  suppose  it  would  be  any  great  disappointment  to  him 
to  refuse;  but,  after  planning  the  journey  to  please  us 
both,  I  do  not  wonder  at  his  being  annoyed,  lie  probably 
feels,  too,  as  if  I  had  been  under  his  guardianship  so  long 
that  he  has  almost  a  right  to  decide  upon  my  con  luct. 
And  he  has  been  very  indulgent  to  me — and  1  a 
stranger  with  no  claims!  Shall!  then  decide  to  give  up 
my  teaching,  to  go  to  the  south,  and  leave  Mrs.  Sullivan 
to  suffer,  perhaps  die,  while  I  am  away?  No,  that  is 
impossible.  J  will  never  be  such  a  traitor  to  mv  own  heart, 
and  my  sense  of  right,;  sorry  as  I  shall  be  to  nlVcnd  Mr. 
Graham,  I  must  not  ;iilow  bis  una'cr  to  UH-H  mo  from  my 
duty." 


130  r/IK  LAMPLIGHTER. 

Having  thus  resolved  to  brave  the  tempest,  and  com- 
mitted her  eau.-e  to  Him  \\lio  jiidgeth  righteously,  Gertrude 
tried  to  compo.-e  herself  to  sleep.  hreams  of  ;i  painful 
nature  started  her  hack  to  consciousness.  In  some  of  these 
visions  she  beheld  M  r.  <  iraham  angry.  and  threatening  lier 
with  his  displeasure  if  she  dared  to  thwart  his  plans;  and 
then  she  seemed  to  see  \\  illie,  the  same  boyish  youth  from 
whom  sne  had  parted  live  years  before,  beckoning  her  with 
a  sad  eon  titeoance  to  the  room  where  nis  pale  mother  lay 
in  a  swoon,  as  (Jertrude  had  a  .few  weeks  before  seen  her. 
Kxliaus.led  by  siich  harassing  images,  she  at  length  gave 
up  the  attempt  to  obtain  any  rest,  and  rising,  seated  her- 
self ai  the  window,  where,  watching  the  approach  of  dawn, 
ehe  found,  in  quiet,  self-communing,  the  courage  which 
she  felt  would  be  requisite  to  carry  her  calmly  and  firmly 
through  the  next  day  —  n  day  destined  to  witness  her  sad 
separation  from  Emily,  and  her  farewell  to  Mr.  (iraham. 
which  would  probably  lie  more  distressing.  The  tyrannical 
disposition  of  Mr.  (.Jraham  was  well  understood  in  his 
family,  eun]i  member  of  which  w-is  accustomed  to  respect 
all  his  wishes  and  whims;  and  though  he  was  always  in- 
dulgent. and  kind,  none  ever  braved  a.  temper  which,  when 
excited,  was  so  violent.  It  cannot,  ihen,  be  surprising  that 
(iertrude's  heart  should  have  failed  her  when  she  stood, 
half-an-hour  before  breakfast-time,  wnh  the  handle  of  the 
dining-room  dour  in  her  hand,  summoning  all  her  energies 
for  another  meeting  with  the  opposer  of  her  plans.  She 
paused  but  a  moment,  and  then  went  in.  Mr.  (Jaaham 
was  sitting  in  his  arm-chair,  and  on  the  In  eak  fast-table  lay 
the  morning  paper.  It  had  been  (Jertrude's  habit  to  read 
that  paper  aloud  to  the  old  gentleman  at  this  same  hour, 
and  it  was  for  that-  pnrpo-e  sin-  had  now  come.  She-  ad- 
vanced toward  him  with  her  usual  "(lend  morning.''' 

Tin-  salutation  was  returned  in  a  constrained  voice.  She 

take  the  newspaper. 


•ertainlv  never   intended  to  treat    von  otherwise  than 
with  re.spe.et,  Mr. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  131 

"When  girls  or  boys  set  themselves  up  in  opposition  to 
those  older  and  wiser  than  themselves,  they  manifest  the 
greatest  disrespect  they  are  capable  of;  but  I  am  willing 
to  forgive  the  past,  it'  you  assure  me.  as  1  think  you  will, 
after  a  night's  reflection,  that  you  have  returned  to  a  right 
sense  of  your  duty/' 

"  I  cannot  say.  sir.  that  I  have  changed  my  views  with 
regard  to  what  that  duty  is/" 

"'Do  yon  mean  to  tel!  me/'  asked  Mr.  Graham,  rising 
from  liis  chair,  and  speaking  in  a  turn.-  whirl;  made  Gerty's 
heart  quake,  " do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  have  an 
idea  of  persisting  in  your  fully  r"v 

"Is  it  folly,  sir,  to  do  ri^iit :  " 

"Plight!  There  is  a  great  difference  of  opinion  ociween 
you  and  me  as  to  what  is  riirhi  in  this  ca.-e.  " 

"  l>ut,  Mr.  Graham,  1  think  if  von  knew  all  the  ciieum- 
stances,  you  would  not  blame  mv  conduct.  1  have  told 
Emily  the  reasons  that  inilticnee  me,  and  she — 

"  JJor/t  quote   Emily  to  me!''  in 
"  1  don't  doubt  she'd   give  her  head  ! 
for  it;  hut  F    hope    I   known   little 
mysel'';  and  1  tell  ymi    plainly,  Miss 
v>ut   HIV  more  words  in  the  matter. 


nre;  and  //tnf-,  you  mav  lind  one  of 
liu'Ut  thing  to  have  incurred-  unnece.- 
doing." 

*' I  am  very  sorry  to  displease  you,  M: 

"No,  you're  not  sorri/;  if  you  \vere, 
straight  in  the  face  of  my  wishes."  .-ai 
began  to  observe  the  expression  of  Gurirndi  s  face,  whi^h, 
though  troubled,  liad  acquired  additional  firmness, 
of  ([nailing  before  his  severe  and  rutting  word-;. 
have  said  enough  nbc'it  a  mailer  which  :•  not  worthy 
much  notice.  You  can  go  or  stay,  as  you  please.  [ 
you  to  understand,  if  you  go,  1  utterly  withdraw  my  pro- 
tection and  assistance  from  you.  You  must  take  caro  of 
yourself,  or  trust  to  strangers.  I  suppose  yon  <  Xpert  yutir 
« 'aleufta  friend  will  support  you.  perhaps  come  home  and 
take  you  under  his  espei  i'.l  i nre;  ti,r  if  von  think  so.  y<>u 
know  little  of  the  world.  I  oa:v  s,tv  liv  is  inarm  d  to  an 
Indian  bv  this  rime,  and.  if  not,  has  i->rgotten  yon." 

"Mr.   Grraham,"  &aid   Gertrude,  proudly,  "Mi.  ISuilivau 


;32  Tin-:  LAV  MM;  USER. 

will  not  probably  return  it.  this  count  rv  for  many  years, 
and  I  assure  you  I  neither  lonk  to  liiiu  no]-  aiivotie  else  for 
support;  i  iiiU'iid  to  earn  a  maintenance  for  mvself." 

"A  heroic  resolve!  v  said  Mr.  Graham,  contemptuously, 
"and  pronounced  \vitli  a  dignity  1  hoju-  YOU  will  he  ahle  to 
maintain.  Am  1  to  consider,  thru,  that  your  mind  is 
made  up  ?  " 

"  It  is,  sir/'  said  fieri  nide.  not  a  little  strengthened  for 
.,he  dreaded  necessity  of  pronouncing  her  iinal  resolution 
by  Mr.  Graham's  sarcastic  speeches. 

"'  And  you  go  ?  " 

"  I  mu>t.  1  believe  it  to  he  niv  dutv.  and  am.  therefore, 
willing  to  sacrilice  mv  o\vn  coin  fort  .  and,  wliat  J  assure 
you  I  value  far  more,  your  friendship 

Mr.  Graham  did  not  seem  to  take  the  least  notice  of  the 
latter  part  of  her  remark,  and  so  far  forgot  his  usual 
politeness  as  to  drovrn  her  voice  in  the  violent  ringing  of 
the  table-bell. 

It  was  answered  hy  Kalv  will)  the  breakfast;  and  Emily 
and  Mrs.  Kills  coming,  ali  seated  themselves  at  the  table, 
and  the  nn-al  was  eomnienred  in  unusual  silence  and  eon- 
Ptraint,  for  Kmil  v  had  i/c.-ini  I!K  jond  tones  o!  her  father's 
voice,  while  Mrs.  KUis  plainlvsaw  that  something  unpleas- 
ant had  occurred. 

When  Mr.  Graham  had  finished  eating  a  hearty  break- 
fast, he  turned  to  Mrs.  Kllis.  and  invited  her  io  aoeompany 
himself  and  Kmii  v  on  their  journey  to  i  he  soul  h,  mention- 
ing the  probability  tiia!  t  he\  should  ]>a.-s  sonic  \\ceks  in 
J  la  vanna. 


askei)  a  num  tier  of  (picst  ions  >  Nne'erning  the  proposed  i  oute 
and  length  of  absence:  while  Kmiiy  iiid  her  agitated  face 
behind  her  tea-nip:  and  (iertrude.  \\  !io  had  lately  been 
rending  f.c//e/'x  ti'ot/i  (  'n/m.iwl  was  awai'e  thai  Mr.  <!rahaip 
knew  tlie  strong  inlerest  .-(,*•  lelt  in  the  place,  pondered  in 
her  mind  whetinT  it  could  lie  po.-.-ib|e  that  he  eniild  be 
guiltv  of  :he  mean  de-ire  to  vex  arid  m«ri:!v  her. 

lireakfa.-t  over.  Kmiiv  haslilv  sought  her  rooin.  where 
Fhe  was  joined  bv  (  iert  rude.  In  aii-werin^  Kmiiy's  in- 
(|ii  i  ries  as  to  tin  Id  ii  h.id  taken  plaee,  (  ierl  rude 

foi  i  ion-  to  repeat    M  i  .  I  n       '    •    1  1  er  and  u  on  ndmg 

remarks;   for  she    -  iend's   eounlenaiiee 

bow  ileelv  nln:    liai  .     iii    h<  i    "Wii    .-.eii.^e    ol     ui\'ii 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  133 

She  told  her,  however,  that  it  was  r,o\v  well  understood  by 
Mr.  Graham  that  she  was  to  leave,  ;md,  as  his  .sent  iments 
towards  her  were  far  from  kindly,  she  thought  it  best  to 
goat  once,  especially  us  she  could  never  be  more  needed 
by  Mrs.  Sullivan  than  at  present.  Emily  su\v  the  reason- 
ableness of  the  proposal,  assented  to  it,  and  agreed  to  ac- 
company her  to  town  that  afternoon;  for,  deeply  sensitive 
at  any  unkindness  manifested  to\vards  Gertrude,  she  pre- 
ferred to  have  her  depart  thus  abruptly,  rather  than 
encounter  her  father's  contemptuous  neglect.  The  re- 
mainder of  the  day  was  spent  by  (iertrude  in  packing  and 
other  preparations,  while,  Kmily  sat  by,  counselling  the 
future  conduct  of  her  adopted  darling,  lamenting  the 
necessity  of  their  separation,  and  exchanging  with  her 
reiterated  assurances  of  nndimished  all'ection. 

•'  Oh,  if  you  could  only  write  to  me,  dear  Emily,  during 
your  long  absence,  what  a  comfort  it  would  be/'  exclaimed 
(Jertrude. 

'•'  With  Mrs.  Kliis's  assistance,  mv  dear,''  replied  Emily, 
"  1  will  send  you  such  news  as  1  can  of  our  movements; 
but,  though  sou  may  not  be  able  to  hear  much  from  me, 
you  will  be  ever  in  my  thoughts,  and  I  shall  never  forget 
to  commend  my  beloved  child  to  the  protection  and  care 
of  One  who  will  be  to  her  a  better  friend  than  1  can  be." 

In  the  course  of  the  day  Gertrude  sought  Mrs.  Ellis,  and 
astonished  that  lady  by  stating  that  she  had  come  to  have 
a  few  farewell  words  with  her.  Surprise,  however,  was 
soon  superseded  by  the  housekeeper's  eagerness  to  ex- 
patiate upon  the  generosity  of  Mr.  Graham,  and  the  de-i 
lights  of  the  excursion  in  prospi  ct.  After  wishing  her  a 
great  deal  of  pleasure,  Gertrude  begged  to  hear  from  her 
by  letter  during  her  absence:  to  which  request  .Mrs.  Ellis 
only  replied  bv  asking  if  Gerlnide  thought  a  Thibet  dress 
would  be  uncomfortable  on  the  journey:  and.  when  it  was 
repeated  with  great  earnestness,  she,  wit  h  equal  nnsatisfac- 
toriness  to  the  suppliant  fur  epistolary  favours,  begged  to 
know  how  many  pairs  of  undersieeves  she  would  probably 
require.  Having  responded  to  her  questions,  anil  at  last 
gained  her  attention,  (iertrude  obtained  from  her  a 
promise  to  write  (»n-  letter,  \\hich  would,  she  declared,  be 
more  than  she  had  done  lor  years. 

lie  fore  leaving  the  house.  Gertrude  sought  Mr  Graham's 
study,  in  hopes  that  he,  would  take  a  friendly  leave  of  her; 


134  THE  LA:    ^LTf'ITTER. 

tut  on  her  telling  him  thaf  >hc  liad  come  to  bid  him 
"liood-b\e,"  he  indistineth  milltered  the  simple  words  of 
that  uni\ersal  formula  so  iL-ep  in  its  meaning  when  coin- 
ing from  the  heart;  so  chilling  when,  uttered,  as  on  the 

O 

present  occasion,  bv  stern  and  near!}  closed  lips- -and 
turning  his  back  upon  her.  took  up  the  tongs  to  mend  his 
lire.  So  she  \vcn;  awav,  \\ith  a  tear  in  her  eve  and  a  sad- 
liess  in  her  heart. 

A  far  dill' (.'rent  scent1  awaited  her  in  the  upper  kitchen, 
•where  she  went  to  seek  Mrs.  Prime  and  Katy.  "  JMess,  ver 
soul,  deai  .Miss  (iert rude!  "  said  the  former,  stumbling  up 
the  staircase  which  led  from  the  lowei  room,  and  wiping 
her  hands  on  her  a:  r<>n  -  "  how  we  shall  miss  ver!  \Vhv, 
the  house  won't  be  v,  orth  livin'  in  when  you're  ou!  of  it. 
JMy  gracious!  if  you  don't  coin  •  back,  we  s!  all  all  die  out 
in  a  fortnight.  Y\  hy,  you're  tiie  iile  and  soul  of  the  place! 
l>ut  there,  1  guess  you  know  uh.it's  right;  so,  if  you  must 
go,  we  must  bear  it— though  Kaiy  and  I'll  cry  our  eves 
out,  for  aught  1  know. " 

"Sure,  .Miss  Uairfhrue,"  said  Irish  Katy,  ''and  it's  right 
glide  in  yon  to  be  afilier  comin'  to  bid  us  good-bve.  1 
don't  see  how  \  ou  gtU  memory  to  think  of  u>  all,  and  I'm 
shure  ye'll  never  be  betthei  olT  than  what  1  wish  ver.  J 
can't  but  think.  mis>,  it'll  go  to  help  ver  along,  that  every- 
body's glide  wishes  ami  bh-ssin'  goes  with  ver." 

"  Thank  you,  l\at\.  thank  you.''  said  (lertrude,  touchea 
by  the  simple  earnestness  of  these  good  friends.  "You 
must  come  and  see  me  some  lime  in  Pmston:  and  von  too, 
Mrs.  Prime,  1  sha!i  depend  upon  it.  ( loud-bye;  v  and  the 
good-bye  thai  /"-'•  fell  upon  (lertrude's  ear  was  a  hearty 
and  a  true  one;  it  followed  her  through  the  hall,  and  as 
the  carriage  drove  away  she  heard  it  mingling  with  the 
rattling  oi  the  vehicle. 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

A    FuIKXI)    IN    Ai'M.ICTIOX. 

PASSINT:  over  (Jeilrude's  parting  with  Kmily.  he;  cor- 
dial n-ccjiiioii  '',  Mrs.  Su!ii\'an.  aitd  her  commencement 
of  school  duties,  we  \\  rd  ihc  events  of  a  day  in 

November,  aboui  t\\"  :m  nllis  after  she  bl't  .Mr.  (iraham's. 


TITK  LA  Ml Y TClITI-lli  1 8 5 

Rising  witli  the  sun,  she  made  her  neat  toilet  in  a  room 
so  cold  that  her  hands  were  half  benumbed;  nor  did  she 
omit,  ere  she  began  the  labours  of  thedav.  to  supplicate 
Heaven's  blessing  niton  them.  Then,  noiselesslv  entering 
the  adjoining  apartment,  where  Mrs.  Sullivan  was  still 
sleeping,  she  lit  a  lire,  and  performed  a  similar  service  at 
the  cooking-stove,  which  stood  in  a  comfortable  room, 
where,  now  that  the  weather  was  cold,  the  familv  took 
their  meals.  The  table  was  set  for  breakfast  when  Mrs. 
Sullivan  entered,  pale,  thin,  and  feeble  in  her  appearance, 
ami  wrapped  in  a  large  shawl. 

"'Gertrude/'*  said  she,  "  why  did  you  let  me  sleep  so 
late,  while  you  are  up  and  at  work  ?  " 

'•  For  the  very  best  reason  in  the  world,  auntie;  because 
I  sleep  all  the  early  part  of  the  night,  and  am  wide  awake 
at  day-break,  and  with  vou  it  is  (juite  the  reverse,  lie- 
sides,  I  like  to  get  the  breakfast;  1  make  such  beautiful 
coifee.  Look!''  said  she,  pouring  s 
then  lifting  the  lid  of  the  coll'ee-pot, 
again;  see  how  clear  it  is!  Don't 
of  it?" 

Mrs.  Sullivan  smiled,  for.  Uncle  True  having  alwavs 
preferred  tea,  Gertrude  did  not  at  lirst  know  how  to 
make  coil'ee. 

"  Xow,"  said   Gertrude,"!  want 
and  watch  the  tea-kettle  boil,  while  1   ru 
Cooper  is  ready  to  let  me  tie  up  his  cue." 

She  went,  leaving  Mrs.  Sullivan  to  think   what 
girl  she  was;  and   presentlv   returning   with   the  oh 
she  placed  a  chair  for  him,  and    having   waited    wl 
seated  himself,  and  then  pinned  a  napkin  about  his 
she  proceeded  to  place  the  breakfast  on  the  table. 

While  Mrs.  Sullivan  poured  out  the  coffee,  (it 
removed  the  skin  from  a  baked  potato,  and  the  shell  from 
a  boiled  egg,  and  placing  boi  h  on  the  plaie  destined  for 
Mr.  Cooper,  handed  him  his  breakfast  in  a  state  of  prepa- 
ration which  obviated  the  ditliculty  the  old  man  experi- 
enced in  performing  these  ta>ks  for  himself.  1'oor  Mrs. 
Sullivan  had  no  appetite,  and  it  was  with  ditliculty  Ger- 


136  THE  LAUP 

Gertrude  gazed  ;it  her  languid  face.  she  realized,  more 
than  ever,  the  change  which  had  come  over  the  active 
lit  tit-  \voman;  and  confident  thai  nothing  hut  positive 
disease  could  have  effected  such  a  transformation,  she 
resolved  ihat  not  another  day  should  pass  without  her  see- 
ing a  physician. 

Breakfast  ever,  there  were  dishes  to  wash,  rooms  to  be 
put  in  order,  (tinner  to  be  partially  prepared;  and  all  this 
Gertrude  saw  •accomplished,  chiefly  through  her  own 
labour,  before  she  went  to  ic-arrange  her  dress,  previous 
to  her  departure  for  the  school  where  she  had  now  been 
some  weeks  assistant  teacher.  A  quarter  before  nine  she 
looked  in  at  the  kitchen  door,  and  said,  in  a  cheering 
tone,  to  the  old  i>;  nn,  who  was  cowering  gloomilv  over  the 
lire  —  "Come,  Mr.  Cooper,  won't  vou  <io  over  and  superin- 
tend the  new  church  a  little  while  this  morning?  Mr. 
Miller  will  be  expecting  YOU;  he  said  vesterdav  that  he 
depended  on  your  c'Mrpanv  when  at  work." 

The  old  ii.  an  rose,  and  taking  his  greatcoat  from  Ger- 
trude, put  it  on  with  her  assistance,  and  accompanied  her 
in  a  meehani.-al  sort  of  wav.  which  implied  great  indiffer- 
ence about  gMing.  A>  thcv  walked  in  silence  down  the 
street,  Gertrude  could  not  but  resolve  in  her  mind  the 
singular  coincidence  which  had  thus  made  her  the  almost 
dailv  companion  of  another  intirm  old  man;  nor  could  she 
fail  to  draw  a  comparison  between  the  warm-hearted 
1'nele  True,  and  ;he  gloomy  1'aul  Cooper.  Unfavorable 
as  the  conipari.-on  was  to  the  latter,  it  did  not  diminish  the 
kindness  of  Cert  rude  touaros  her  present  charge,  who  wai> 
in  her  eves  an  object  of  sincere-  compassion.  They  soon 
reached  the  new  church-  a  very  handsome  edifice.  It 
was  not  yet  finish*  d.  and  a  number  of  workmen  were 
completing  the  interior.  A  man  with  a  hod  full  of  nioj'tan 
preceded  Gertrude  ami  her  companion  up  t  he  steps  which 
led  to  the  main  entrance,  lun  stopped  inside  the  porch, 

name,  and  turned  to  re- 
••  (  ;,)(,(]  morning.  Miss 
very  well,  t  his  fine  day. 
elp  me  a  litt  le,  1  see  — 
wel  1  \\  it  hout  you  — 
.  i  f  \  o 


etting  along.' 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  1?,7 

So  saying,  he  was  walking  away  with  the  old  sexton; 
but  Gertrude  asked  him  if  he  would  see  Mr.  Cooper  safe 
home  when  he  passed  Mrs.  Sullivan's  house  on  his  way  to 
dinner. 

"Certainly,  Miss  Flint,"  replied  the  man.  "with  all 
pleasure;  he  has  usually  gone  with  me  readily,  when  you 
have  left  him  in  my  care."  (Jertrude  then  hastened  to  the 
school,  rejoicing  that  Mr.  Cooper  would  be  safe  during  the 
morning;  and  that  Mrs.  Sullivan  would  have  the  quiet  she 
so  much  needed. 

This  man  was  a  respectable  mason,  who  had  often  been 
in  Mr.  Graham's  employ,  and  whose  good-will  Gertrude 
had  won  by  the  kindness  she  had  shown  his  family  during 
the  previous  winter,  when  they  were  sick.  In  her  daily 
walk  past  the  church,  she  had  oft  seen  Mr.  Miller  at 
work,  and  it  occurred  to  her  that,  if  she  could  awaken  in 
Mr.  Coopers  mind  an  interest  in  the  new  struct  ure,  he 
might  find  amusement  in  watching  the  workmen.  She 
had  some  difficulty  i:;  persuading  him  to  visit  a  building 
to  the  erection  of  which  he  had  been  opposed.  Once 
there,  he  became  interested  in  the  work,  and  as  Mr. 
Miller  tried  to  make  him  comfortable,  and  made  him  be- 
lieve that  he  was  useful,  he  gradually  acquired  a  habit  of 
passing  the  greater  part  of  every  morning  in  watching  the 
workmen.  Sometimes  Gertrude  called  for  him  on  her 
return  from  school;  and  sometimes  Mr.  Miller  took  him 
home. 

Since  Gertrude  had  been  at  Mrs.  Sullivan's  there  was  a 
great  alteration  in  Mr.  Cooper.  He  was  more  manageable, 
and  manifested  less  irritability,  and  his  favourable'  change, 
together  with  the  cheering  influence  of  (lertrude's  society, 
had  produced  a  beneficial  effect  upon  Mrs.  Sullivan:  but 
within  the  last  few  days,  lit 
sudden  attacks  of 
She  determined, 
her  school  duties,  to  seek  J)r.  Jeremy  and  request  his 
attendance. 

Of  Gertrude's  school-duties,  she   was   found    In- 
competent  to  the  performance  of  them,  and   that 
with    those    trials    only    which    all    teachers    an 
from    the    idleness   or    stupidity  of    their   pi;p 
day  she  was   detained    to  a  later   hour   than    u.- 
clock  struck  two  as  she  was  ringing  l)r.  Jt 


138  THE  LAVPLTGflTEI*. 

The  girl  who  opened  the  door  knew  Gertrude,  and  telling 
her  that,  although  the  doctor  wa>  just  g»ing  to  d  inner,  she> 
thought  he  would  see  her,  asked  her  into  theoHice.  llj 
advanced  to  meet  Gertrude,  holding  out  both  his  hands. 
'•  (iertrude  Flint,  I  declare!  "  exclaimed  he.  "Why,  I'm 
glad  to  see  you,  my  girl.  \\  !iv  haven't  you  been  here  be- 
fore, I  should  like  to  know?"  (iertnide  explained  that 
she  was  living  with  friends,  one  of  whom  was  very  old,  the 
other  an  invalid;  and  that  so  much  of  her  time  was  occu- 
pied in  school,  that  she  had  no  opportunity  for  visiting. 

'•'Poor  excuse,"  said  the  doc-tor;  "poor  excuse,  liut,  now 
we've  got  you  here,  we  shan't  let  vou  go  verv  soon!  "  and 
going  to  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  he  called  out  loudly, 
"Mrs.  Jerry!  Mrs.  Jerry!  come  down  to  dinner  as.  quick 
as  you  can,  and  put  on  your  best  cap — we've  ^«i  company. 
—Poor  soul!  "  added  he,  in  a  lower  tone,  smiling,  "  she  can't 
Jiurrv,  can  she,  Gerty  ? — she's  so  fat." 

Gertrude  protested  against  staying  to  dinner,,  declaring 
she  must  hasten  home,  and  announcing  Mrs.  Su'livan'o 
illness  and  the  object  of  her  visit. 

"An  hour  can't  make  much  difference,''  insisted  the  doc- 
tor. "  You  must  stay  and  dine  with  me,  and  then  I'll  take 
yon  with  me  in  the  buggy."  (iertrude  hesitated:  the  sky 
had  clouded  over,  and  a  few  Hakes  of  snow  were  falling; 
she  should  have  an  uncomfortable  walk;  and.  moreover, 
it  would  be  better  for  her  to  accompany  the  doctor,  as  the 
street  in  which  she  lived  was  principally  composed  of  new 
houses,  not  yet  numbered,  and  he  might  have  some  diffi- 
culty in  iinding  the  right  tenement.  Mrs.  Jeremy  now 
entered.  Fat  she  certainly  was.  uncommonly  fat,  and 
flushed  with  the  excitement  of  dressing.  She  kissed  (ier- 
trude, and  then,  seeing  that  no  one  else  was  present,  ex- 
claimed, glancing  reproachfully  at  the  doctor—"  Why,  Drc 
Jerrv! — an't  you  ashamed  of  yourself?  1  never  will  be- 
lieve vou  again;  you  made  me.  think  there  was,  some  great 
stranger  here." 

••'And  pray.  Mrs.  Jerry,  who's  a  greater  stranger  in  this 
house  than  <  lei  ty  Flint  ?  '' 

•'Sure  enough!"  said  Mrs.  Jeremy.  "Gertrude  i*  a 
stranger,  and  I've  got  a  scolding  in  store  for  her  on  that 
very  account;  but.  you  know,  I  *r.  Jerrv,  I  shouldn't  have 
put  on  my  lilac-find-pink  for  Gertrude  to  see;  she  likes  mo 
just  as  well  iu  my  old  yellow,  ii'  she  did  tell  me.  when  1 


TttK  LAMPLIGHTER. 

bought  it,  the  saucy  girl,  that  I'd  selected  the  ugliest  cap 
in  Boston.  |)o  you  remember  that  Gertv:1"  Gertv 
laughed  heartily  a:  the  recollection  of  an  amusing:  see  no 
that  took  place  \vheu  she  went  shopping  with  Mrs.  Jeremy. 
"  Hut  come,  Gurty,  dinner's  ready;  take  oil'  your  cloak  and 
bonnet,  and  come  into  the  dining-room;  the  doctor  has 
much  to  say,  and  lias  been  wanting  dreadfully  to  see  you." 

They  had  been  sitting  some  minutes  without  a  word 
having  been  spoken,  when  the  doctor  suddenly  commenced 
laughing  till  tears  came  into  his  eyes,  (intrude  looked  at 
him,  inquiringly,  and  Mrs.  Jeremy  said,  "  There,  (iertrude! 
— for  a  whole  week  he  had  just  such  a  laughing  tit,  two  or 
three  times  a-day.  1  was  as  much  astonished  at  first  as 
you  are;  and  I  don't  understand  now  what  could  have 
happened  between  him  and  Mr.  Graham  that  was  so  very 
funny." 

"Come,  wife,''  said  the  doctor,  '''don't  you  forestall  my 
communication.  1  want  to  tell  the  story  myself.  J  don't 
suppose,  Gertrude,  you've  lived  five  years  at  Mr.  Graham's 
without  ii'iding  out  what  a  cantankerous,  opinionative, 
obstinate  old  hulk  he  is!'' 

"  Doctor!  "  said  Mrs.  Jeremy,  "  be  careful." 

"I  don't  care,  wife;  I'll  speak  my  mind  with  regard  to 
Mr,  Graham:  and  Gertrude,  here,  has  done  the  same,  I 
haven't  a  particle  of  doubt,  only  she's  a  good  girl,  and 
won't  say  so." 

"  I  never  saw  anything  that  looked  like  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Jeremy;  "  I've  seen  as  much  of  him  as  most  folks.  I  meet 
him  in  the  street  almost  every  day,  and  he  look's  as  smiling 
as  a  basket  of  chips,  and  makes  a  beautiful  bow." 

"  I  dare  say,"  said    the  doctor;  "(iertrude  and    I   know 
what  gentlemanly  manners  he  has  when  one  does  not  walk 
an    the    very    teeth   of:    his    opinions — oh,   Gertrude! —but 
when  one  does — 

"In  talking  polities,  for  instance,"  suggested  Mis 
Jeremy.  "It's  your  differences  with  him  on  polities  that 
have  set  you  against  him  so." 

"  No,  it  isn't/'  replied  the  doctor.  "A  man  may  get 
angry  talking  politics,  and  be  a  good-natured  man  too.  I 
get  angrv  w//.sW/"  on  //<//Y//rx,  but  that  isn't  the  sort  of  thing 
I  refer  to.  It's  Graham's  wanting  to  lay  down  the  law  to 
evervbodv  that  comes  within  ten  miles  ol  him  that  1  can't 
endure;  .his  dictatorial  way  of  acting  as  if  he  were  the 


UO  THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 

Grand  Mogul  of  Cochin  China.  T  thought  he'd  improved 
of  late  years;  he  had  a  ,-erious  le.-son  enough  in  that  sad 
affair  of  poor  1'hilip  Amorv's;  but  J  believe  he's  been  trv- 
ing  the  old  game  again,  lla!  ha!  ha! '' shouted  the  good 
doctor,  leaning  forward  and  giving  Gertrude  a  light  tap 
on  the  shoulder — "  wasn't  1  glad  when  I  found  he'd  met 
at  last  with  a  reasonable  opposition  !  and  that,  too,  where 
he  least  expected  it  !  ' 

Gertrude  looked  her  astonishment  at  his  evident  knowl- 
edge of  the  misunderstanding  between  herself  and  Mr. 
Graham.  "  You  wonder  where  1  got  my  information;  I'll 
tell  you.  It  was  partly  from  Graham  himself;  and  whi't 
diverts  me  is  to  think  how  hard  the  old  chap  tried  to  hide 
his  defeat,  and  persuade  me  that  he'd  had  his  own  way, 
when  1  saw  through  him,  and  knew  that  he  d  found  his 
match  in  you." 

"Dr.  Jeremy,"  said  Gertrude,  *' I  hope  you  don't 
think — 

"  .No,  my  dear,  I  il<»t'f  think  you  $>  professional  pugilist ; 
Imt  1  consider  you  a  girl  of  sense— one  who  knows  what's 
right— -ami  will  do  what's  right,  in  spite  of  Mr.  Graham; 
and  when  you  hear  my  story  you  will  know  the  grounds  on 
which  I  formed  my  opinion  with  regard  to  the  course 
things  had  taken.  One  day- about  two  months  ago — I 
was  summoned  to  go  and  see  one  of  Mr.  \V.'s  children,  who 
had  an  attack  of  croup.  Mr.  \\ .  was  talking  with  me, 
when  he  wa>  called  away  to  see  a  visitor,  and  on  his  return 
he  mentioned  that  he  had  secured  your  sen  ices  in  his 
school.  1  knew  Kmilv  intended  you  for  a  teacher,  and  I 
was  thankful  you  had  i;ot  so  good  a  situation.  At  Mr. 
\\Ysdoor  1  encountered  Mr.  G  rahani,  and  he  entertained 
me  is  we  went  down  the  street  with  an  account  of  his  plan 
for  the  winter.  *  Hut  Gertrude  Hint  is  not  iroin^  with 
\'ou.'  -aid  I.  —  'Gertrude!'  said  he:  "cerlainlv  she  is.'— 
.-lire  of  t  hat  ?  '  I  asked,  'llavevou  invited  htr?' 
d  he]1!  \o.'  was  his  answer:  'but,  of  course  I 
will  go,  and  lie  ulad  of  t  he  opportunity ;  it  isn't 
1  that  is  so  fortunate.'  Now,  Gerty,  I  felt  pro- 
d  at  his  wav  of  speaking,  and  1  answered,  in  as  con- 
lid'  -I  t  a  tone  as  his  own,  '  1  doubt  whet  her  .-h'1  will  accept 
(he  invitation.'  I'pon  that.  Mr.  l>i:_!'nit\  straightened  up, 
and  such  a  spi-n-h  as  hf  made!  1  never  can  recall  it  with- 
out being  amused,  especially  uheii  I  think  of  the  coiiu* 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  141 

down  that  followed  so  soon  after.  I  rair't  repeat  it:  but 
one  would  have  thcnght  to  hear  him  that  it  was  not  only 
impossible  you  should  oppose  his  wishes,  but  aetual  treason 
in  me  to  suggest  such  a  thing.  1  knew  better  than  to  tell 
what  I  had  just  heard  from  Mr.  \V.,  but  1  never  felt  a 
greater  curiosity  about  anything  than  I  did  to  know  how 
the  matter  would  end.  Two  or  three  times  I  planned  to 
drive  to  see  Emily,  and  hear  the  result;  but  a  doctor  never 
".an  call  a  day  his  own,  and  I  got  prevented.  On  Sunday 
I  heard  Mrs.  Prime's  voice  in  the  kitchen  (her  niece  lives 
here),  and  down  I  went  to  make  my  inquiries.  .She  told 
me  the  truth,  I  rather  think;  though  not,  perhaps,  all  the 
particulars.  It  was  not  more  than  a  day  or  two  after  that 
before  I  saw  Graham.  'Ah/ said  I;  'when  do  you  start?' 
— 'To-morrow/  replied  he.  '.Really/  I  exclaimed;  'then 
I  shan't  see  your  ladies  again.  Will  yon  take  a  little  pack- 
age from  me  to  Gertrude  ? ' — '1  know  nothing  about  Ger- 
trude/ said  he,  stillly. — '  What  !  '  rejoined  I,  affecting  great 
surprise,  '  has  Gertrude  left  you?' — 'She  has.'  answered 
he.  'And  dared/  continued  I, 'to  treat  you  with  such  dis- 
respect— to  trifle  so  with  your  dignity?' — '  1  >r.  , Jeremy !' 
exclaimed  he,  '  J  don't  wish  to  hear  her  mentioned;  she 
has  behaved  as  ungratefullv  as  she  has  unwisely.' — '  Why. 
about  the  gratitude.  (Iraham/  said  I,  '  J  believe  you  said  it 
would  only  be  an  additional  favour  on  your  part  if  you 
took  her  with  you,  and  I  think  it  is  wisdom  in  her  to  make 
herself  independent  at  home.  ]'>ut  1  really  am  sorry  for 
you  and  Emilv;  you  will  miss  her  so  much.' — ' 'U  e  can 
dispense  with  your  sympathy,  sir,'  answered  he;  'for  that 
which  is  no  loss.'— -Ah!  really.'  1  replied:  'now,  I  was 
thinking  Gertrude's  society  would  lie  quite  a  loss.' — *  .Mrs. 
Ellis  goes  with  us/  said  lie,  with  emphasis,  that  seemed  to 
say  her  company  compensated  for  all  deficiencies.— *  Ah !' 
said  I,  'charming  woman,  Mrs.  Kllis!'  (Jraham  looked 
annoyed,  for  he  is  aware  that  Mrs.  K 

"  Well,  you  ought  to 
his  kind-hearted  wife,  " 
his  weak  point:  it  was  only  exenini: 
ing." 

"  I  was  taking  up  the  cudgels  for  < 


H2  THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 

the  kindest  of  feelings  towards  Mr.  Graham,  this  blessed 
minute." 

"'I  have,  Mrs.  Jeremy,"  said  Gertrude;  "lie  lias  been  a 
most  generous  and  indulgent  friend  to  me." 

"  Except  when  you  wauled  to  have  your  own  wav,v  s"g- 
gested  the  doctor. 

"Which  I  seldom  did  when  it  was  in  opposition  to  his 
wishes.  I  always  considered  it  my  duty  to  submit  to  him. 
until  at  last  a  higher  duty  compelled  me  to  do  otherwise." 

"And  then,  my  dear."  said  Mrs.  Jeremy,  *' I  dare  sav  it 
pained  yon  to  displease  him:  and  that  is  a  right  woman's 
feeling,  and  one  that  Dr.  Jerry,  in  his  own  heart,  can't 
but  approve  of,  though  one  would  think,  to  hear  him  talk, 
that  he  considered  it  prettv  in  a  young  girl  to  take  satis- 
faction in  browbeating  an  old  gentleman.  Hut  don't  let 
us  talk  any  more  about  it:  he  has  had  his  say.  and  now  it's 
my  turn.  I  want  to  hear  how  you  are  situated,  Gerty, 
where  you  live,  and  how  you  like  teaching.''' 

Gertrude  answered  all  these  questions:  and  the  doctor, 
who  had  heard  Mrs.  Sullivan  spoken  of  as  a  friend  of 
True's  and  (ierty's,  m:ule  many  inquiries  as  to  her  health. 
It  was  now  snowing  fast,  and  (iertrude's  anxiety  to  return 
home  in  good  season  being  very  manifest  to  her  kind  host 
and  hostess,  they  urged  no  further  delay,  and,  after  she 
iiad  promised  to  repeat  her  visit,  she  drove  away  with  the 
doctor. 


CH  APT  Ell   XXIII. 

CAKKS    MULTIPLIED. 

,  "I  HATE  been  thinking,'5  said  Gertrude,  as  she  drew 
near  home,  "  how  we  shall  manage,  doctor,  so  as  not  to 
alarm  M rs.  Sullivan.5' 

"  What's  iroing  to  alarm  her?  v  asked  the  doctor. 

"  You.  if  she  knows  at  oner  you  are  a  })hysician.  I  think 
1  hail  better  hitroduee  \'iit  as  a  friend,  ^ito  h>v"iight  me 
home  in  t  he  <torm." 

"Oh!  so  \\  e  are  '_y>!ii_;  In  ae|  a  li'lle  faree,  are  we? 
tSta^e  manager,  (rerfude  Mint  unKiinw:i  stranger,  Dr, 
Jeremy  I'm  ready-  Vv  'i:"  »b.-i.l!  I  >-uv  '.r»t. '•"' 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  143 

"I  leave  that  to  ;t  wiser  head  than  mine,  doctor,  and 
trust  entirely  to  your  own  discretion  to  obtain  some  knowl- 
edge of  her  symptoms,  and  only  gradually  disclose  to  her 
that  you  are  a  physician.'' 

"  Ah,  yes!  pretend  at  first  to  be  only  a  private  individual 
of  an  inquiring  mind.  lean  manage  it.'"  As  they  opened 
the  door,  Mrs.  Sullivan  rose  from  her  chair  with  a  troubled 
countenance,  and  hardly  waited  for  the  introduction  to 
Gertrude's  friend  before  she  asked  if  Mr.  Cooper  were  not 
with  them. 

"No,  indeed/'-'  replied  Gertrude.  ''Hasn't  he  come 
home  ?  " 

Upon  Mrs.  Sullivan  sayinir  that  she  had  not  seen  him 
since  morning,  Gertrude  informed  her,  with  a  composure 
the  was  far  from  feeling,  that  Mr.  Miller  had  undertaken 
the  care  of  him,  and  eould,  undoubtedly,  account  for  his 
absence.  She  would  seek  him  at  once. 

•'  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry,''  said  Mrs.  Sullivan,"  that  yon  should 
have  to  go  out  again  in  such  a  storm:  hut  I  feel  very 
anxious  about  grandpa — don't,  you,  (icily  I'" 

"Not  very:  I  think  he's  safe  in  the  church.  But  I'll 
go  for  him  at  once;  yon  know,  auntie,  I  never  mind  the 
weather." 

"Then  take  rny  great  shawl,  dear.  And  Mrs.  Sullivan 
went  to  the  closet  for  her  shawl,  giving  Gertrude  an  oppor- 
tunity to  beg  of  ]_)r.  Jeremy  that  he  would  await  h"r  re- 
turn :  for  she  knew  that  any  unusual  agitation  of  mind 
would  often  cause  an  attack  of  i'aintness  in  Mrs.  Sullivan, 
and  was  afraid  to  have  her  left  alone,  to  dwell  with  alarm 
upon  Mr.  Coopers  prolonged  absence. 

It  was  a  verv  disagreeable  afternoon,  and  already  growing 
rlark.  Gertrude  hastened  along  the  wet  footpath,  exposed 
to  the  blinding  storm,  and,  after  passing  through  several 
streets,  gained  the  ebureh.  She  went  into  the  building, 
now  nearlv  deserted  by  workmen,  saw  that  Mr.  Coopr;-  \\a> 
not  there,  and  beu'an  to  fear  she  should  gain  no  informal  ion 
concerning  him,  when  she  met  Mr.  Miller  coming  from  th'- 
gallery,  lie  looked  surprised  at  seeing  her,  ami  a>ked  if 
Mr.  Cooper  had  not  reiurneil  borne.  She  answered  in  the 
negative,  and  he  informed  her  tin!  his  efforts  were  insutli- 
cien  t  to  persuade  t  h'1  old  man  to  L;O  home  a!  dinner-t  ime, 
and  that  he  had  therefore  taken  him  I"  his  own  house;  in 
had  supposed  that,  long  before  this  hour  he  would  ha\c 


H-i  THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 

been  induced  to  allow  one  of  the  children  to  accompany 
him  to  M  rs.  Sullivan's. 

As  it  seemed  probable  that  he  was  still  at  Mr.  Miller's. 
(nTtrude  proceeded  thiiher  at.  once  After  an  uncomfort- 
able walk,  she  reached  her  destination.  She  knocked  at 
the  door,  but  there  was  no  response,  and  after  waiting  a 
moment,  she  opened  it,  and  went  in.  Through  another 
door  there  was  the  sound  of  children's  voices,  and  so  much 
noise  that  she  believed  it  impossible  to  make  herself  heard, 
and,  therefore,  without  further  ceremony,  entered  the 
room.  A  band  of  startled  children  dispersed  at  the  sight 
of  a  stranger,  and  enseonced  themselves  in  corners;  and 
Mrs.  Miller,  in  dismay  at  the  untidy  appearance  of  her 
kitchen,  hastily  pushed  back  a  clothes-horse  against  the 
wall,  theret)V  disclosing  to  view  the  very  person  (Jertrudo 
had  come  to  seek,  who,  in  his  usual  desponding  attitude, 
sat  cowering  over  the  tire.  Hut,  before  she  could  advance 
to  speak  to  him,  her  attention  was  arrested  by  a  most  un- 
expected sight.  Placed  against  the  side  of  the  room, 
opposite  tin1  door,  was  a  narrow  bed,  in  which  some  person 
seemed  to  be  sleeping.  Hardly,  however,  had  (Jertnide 
presented  herself  in  the  doorway  before  the  figure  suddenly 
raised  itself,  gazed  fixedly  at  her,  lifted  a  hand  as  if  to 
ward  otT  her  approach,  and  uttered  a,  piereing  shriek. 

The  voice  and  countenance  were  not  to  be  mistaken,  and 
CJertrude.  pale  and  trembling,  felt  something  like  a  revival 
of  her  old  dread  as  she  beheld  the  well-known  features  of 
Nan  (Jrant. 

"(Jo  awav!  go  dirtn/!"  cried  "Nan,  as  (Jertnide  ad- 
vanced into  the  room.  Again  (Jertnide  paused,  for  the 
wildness  of  Nan's  eyes  and  t he  excitement  of  her  counte- 
nance were  such  that  she  feared  to  excite  her  further. 
Mrs,  Miller  now  came  forward  and  said,  ''  \\liy.  Aunt 
Nancy!  what  is  the  matter:'  This  is  Miss  Flint,  one  of 
the  best  v< ill ir.;'  ladies  in  the  land." 

"  NII.  'tan't  !  "  said   Nan.      "  I   know  better." 

Mrs.  Miller  n<>w  drew  (Jertrude  aside  into  the  shadow  of 


THE   LAMrUC.IITER.  1  <5 

est  destitution,  and  threatened  with  the  fever  under  which 
she  was  now  suffering.  "1  could  n.it  refuse  her  a  shelter," 
said  Mrs.  Miller;  "hut,  as  you  see,  I  have  no  accommoda- 
tion for  her:  and  it's  not  only  had  fur  me  to  ha\e  her  sick 
hero  in  the  kitchen,  hut.  what  with  the  noise  of  the  chil- 
dren, and  all  the  other  discomforts,  .I'm  afraid  the  poor  old 
thing  will  die.'' 

"Have  you  a  room  that  von  could  spare  above-stairs?" 
asked  Gertrude. 

"Why,  there's  our  Jane,"'  answered  "Mrs.  Miller:  "she's 
a  good-hearted  girl  as  ever  lived  :  .-lie  said,  right  oil',  she'd 
give  ii])  her  room  to  poor  Aunt  Xancy.  and  she'd  sleep  in 
with  the  other  children.  1  di.n't  feel,  though.  as  if  wo 
could  afford  to  keep  another  (ire  agoing,  and  so  I  thought, 
we'd  put  a  bed  here  for  a  day  or  two.  and  just  see  how  she 
got  along.  But  she's  looked  pretty  had  to-day:  and  now, 
I'm  thinking  from  her  actions  that  .-lie's  considerable  out 
of  her  head.'' 

"She  ought  to  be  kept  quiet,"  said  Gertrude;  "and.  if  you 
will  have  a  tire  in  Jane'.-  room  at  my  expense,  and  do  what 
YOU  can  to  make  her  comfortable,  I'll  send  a  physician 
here  to  see  her/'  Mrs.  Miller  was  beginning  to  express 
the  warmest  gratitude,  but  Gertrude  interrupted  her  with 
saying,  "Don't  thank  me,  Mrs.  Miller:  Xancy  is  not  a 
stranger  to  me;  I  have  known  her  before,  and,  perhaps, 
feel  more  interested  in  her  than  you  do  yourself." 

Mrs.  Miller  looked  surprised;  but  Gertrude  could  not 
stop  to  enter  into  a  further  explanation.  Anxious  to 
speak  to  Xan,  and  assure1  her  of  her  friendly  intention-,  she 
went  up  to  the  side  of  the  hed,  in  spite  of  the  wild  and 
glaring  eyes  which  were  iixed  steadily  upon  her.  ".Van," 
said  she,  "'do  you  know  mo?" 

"Yes!   yes!''   replied    Xan.    in   a   h 


But  Xan  still  looked  incredulous,  and  in  the  sa 
tone,  and  with  the  same  norvon-  accent,  inquir 
you  seen  Gorty?  \\herc  is  -he? 

"She  is   well,''"   answered     Gertrude.   a-t»ni^hed     at     th 
question,  for  she  had  supposed   her.-elf  recognized, 

"What  did  she  sav  about.  me?': 


140  THE  LA  Ml'!.!  CUTER. 

"She  pays  that  she  forgives  and  pities  yon,  and  is  in 
hopes  to  do  something  to  help  you  and  make  YOU  well.'' 

"  Hid  she?"  said  the  sick  woman;  "then  you  won't  kill 
me  ?  " 

"  Kill  yon  ? — \o.  indeed.  We  ai'e  in  hopes  to  make  you 
conifortalile  and  cure  yon." 

Mrs.  Miller,  who  had  been  preparing  a  cup  of  tea,  now 
drew  near  with  it  in  her  hand,  Gertrude  took  it  and 
offered  it  to  Nau.  who  drank  eagerly  of  it.  staring  at,  her 
over  the  edge  of  i  he  cup.  When  she  had  finished,  she' 
threw  herself  heavilv  upon  the  pillow,  and  heyan  muttering 
some  indistinct  sentences,  the  only  distinguishable  word 
being  the  name  of  her  son  Stephen.  Finding  the  current 
of  her  thoughts  thus  apparently  diverted.  Gertrude  now 
feeling  in  haste  to  rel  urn  and  relieve  Dr.  Jeremy,  who  had 
so  kindly  agreed  to  stay  with  Mrs.  Sullivan,  moved  a.  little 
from  the  bedside,  saving  as  she  did  so,  "  Good-bye,  1  will 
come  and  see  you  again." 

"  Yon  won't   hurt  me  ?"  said  Nan.  starting  up. 

"  Oh,  no.     I  \vill  briny  vou  something  von  will  like." 

"  Don't  bring  Gerty  here  with  you!  I  don't  want  to  see 
her." 

"  I  will  come  alone."  replied  Gertrude. 

Nan  now  laid  down,  and  did  not  speak  again  while 
Gertrude  remained  in  the  house,  though  she  watched  her 
steadily  until  she  was  outside  the  door.  Mr.  Cooper  made 
no  objection  to  accompanying  his  vomit:  guide,  and  though 
the  severity  of  the  storm  was  <uch  that  they  did  not  escape 
a  thorough  wetting,  thev  reached  home  in  safety. 

Dr.  Jeremy,  seated  with  his  feet  upon  the  fender,  had 
the  contented  appearance  of  one  who  is  quite  at  home. 
He  had  been  talking  with  .Mrs.  Sullivan  about  the  people 
of  a  country  town  where  thev  had  both  passed  some  time 
in  their  childhood,  a:id  the  timid  woman  had  come  to  feel 
,«o  much  at.  her  ea-c  in  the  society  of  the  social  and  enter- 
taining phvsicia,!.  that,  though  he  had  accidentally  dis- 
clo-ed  his  profession,  she  allowed  him  to  fpiest  ion  her  upon 
the  state  of  h'T  health,  without  anv  of  the  alarm  she  had 
fancied  she  should  IV.  !  a!  the  sitrlil  of  a  doctor.  liy  the 
time  Gertrude  n-l  unu-l.  he  had  made  hiinself  v.ell  ac- 
(inuintcd  with  :  .  I  \\  is  prepared,  on  Mr-.  Sulli- 

van's   leaving  tiie    room,   in    provide   dry  clothes    for    hef 
father,  [o  report,  '.o  (JertruJo  hi.s  o['inioni 


THE  J.AVrU(',UTF.n.  147 

"Gertrude/'  said  lie,  us  soon  as  the  door  was  shut, 
"that's  a  very  <ick  woman." 

"Do  you  think  so,  Dr.  .Jeremy:'''  said  (uTtnule.  much 
alarmed,  and  sinking  into  the -nearest-  chair. 

"I  do,"  replied  he.  "  I  wish  I  had  seen  her  six  months 
ago." 

"Why,  doctor  ?  Do  you  date  her  illness  so  iar  back  as 
that  ?  "' 

'•  Yes,  and  rruch  ['arilier.  She  has  borne  up  under  the 
gradual  progress  of  a  disease  u  hieh  is  new,  1  fear,  beyond 
the  aid  of  medical  treatment." 

"Dr.  .Jeremv."  said  (id",  rude,  "yon  do  not  mean  to  tell 
me  that  auntie  is  going  to  die  and  leave  me,  and  her  poor 
old  father,  and  without,  ever  seeing  \\illie  again,  too? 
Oh,  I  had  hoped  it  was  not  neuvh  so  bad  as  that"' 

"Do  not  be  alarmed,  (iertrnde,"  said  the  doctor.  "I 
did  not  mean  to  frighten  you;-- she  mav  live  some  time 
yet.  I  can  judge  better  of  her  case  in  a  day  or  two.  Hut 
it  is  absolutely  nnxitf<-  for  yon  to  he  here  alone  with  these 
two  friends  of  yours  to  say  nothing  of  its  o\ertasking 
your  strength,  lias  not  Mrs.  Sulli\;.n  the  means  to  keep 
a  nurse,  or  even  a  domestic!"  She  tells  me  she  has  no 
one." 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  answered  (ierty:  "her  sen  supplies  her 
wants  most  generous! v.  !  know  that  she  never  draw* 
nearly  the  whole  of  the  amount  la;  is  anxious  she  should 
expend." 

"  Then  von  must  speak  to  her  about  getting  some  one  to 
assist  you  at  once:  1'or.  if  yon  do  not,  I  shall." 

"  J  intend  to  cio  if. 'v  said  (Jerlnide.  "1  have  seen  the 
necessity  for  some  time  past  ;  but  she  has  such  a  dread  of 
strangers,  that  I  hated  to  prope.se  it." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  the  doctor;  "that's  only  imagination 
in  her;  she  would  soon  get  used  to  being  waited,  upon." 

Mrs.    Sullivan    now    returned,  and    (n-rtiude.  tnvin-j;   an 


begged  Dr.  .Jeremv  to  go  the  next  dav  and  see  her.  "  It 
will  be  a  visit  of  charity,"  suid  she.  "  for  she  is  proh;;h!y 
penniless;  and,  though  staying  wit!;  vour  old  patients,  the 
Millers,  she  is  bnt  distant  !y  eoinieed  •.!.  and  lias  no  claim 
upon  them.  Thai  never  makes  any  iiiileiei.ee  \\  it  h  yoi; 
however,  I  know  very  well.'1 

"'JS:ot  a  bit,  not  a  bit,"  uuswercd    the  doctor.     ".I'll  go 


148  TIM  l.AMPLHUITER. 

ai  (  see  lie:1  f  o-ni<jht ,  if  the  ease  requires  it,  and  to-morrow 
1  shall  look  in  to  report  h..,\'  -he  is,  and  hear  the  rest  of 
what  Mrs.  Sullivan  was  ti-'liu^  me  about  her  wakeful 
nights.  Hut.  Gertrude,  do  you  tn>,  child,  and  change  votir 
wet  shoes  and  stockings.  1  shall  have  you  on  my  hands 
next.'' 

Mrs.  Sullivan  was  delighted  with  Dr.  Jeremv.  "So 
different,"  said  she,"  from  common  doctors''  (a  portion  of 
humanity  for  which  -,,e  seemed  to  have  an  unaccountable 
aversion):  "  so  social  and  friendly!  Why.  I  felt,  (iertrude, 
as  if  I  could  talk  Uj  him  about  my  sickness  as  freely  as  1 
can  to  you.'' 

(Iertrude  joined  in  the  praise-  bestowed  upon  her  much- 
valued  friend,  and  it  was  tea-time  before  Mrs.  Sullivan  was 
weary  of  the  subject.  After  the  evening  meal  was  over, 
and  Mr.  Cooper  had  been  persuaded  to  retire  to  rest,  while 
Mrs.  Sullivan,  reclining  on  the  sofa,  was  enjoying  what  she 
always  termed  her  happiest  hour,  Gertrude  broached  the 
subject  recommended  by  Dr.  .Jercmv.  Contrary  to  her 
expectations,  Mrs.  Sullivan  no  longer  objected  to  the  pro- 
posal of  introducing  a  domestic  into  the  family.  She  was 
convinced  of  her  own  inoompctency  to  perform  any  active; 
labour,  and  was  equally  opposed  to  the  exertion  on 
Gertrude's  part  which  had.  during  the  hist  week,  been 
requisite.  Gertrude  sn^ested  .Jane  .Miller  as  a  <^irl  well 
suited  to  their  wants,  and  it  was  agreed  that  she  should  be 
applied  for  on  tin;  next  morning. 

One  more  glance  at  Gertrude,  and  we  shall  have  followed 
her  to  the  conclusion  of  the  day.  She  is  alone.  It  is  ten 
o'clock,  and  the  house  is  still.  Mr.  Cooper  is  sound  asleep. 
Gertrude  has  just,  listened  at  his  door,  and  heard  his  loud 
breathing.  Mrs.  Sullivan,  under  the  inlliiencc  of  a  sooth- 
ing draught  recommended  b\  Dr.  .Jcremv,  has  fallen  into 
an  unusually  quiet  slumber.  Th'-  little  Calcutta  birds,  ten 
in  number,  that  occupy  a  larire  ca^e  in  the  window,  are 
nestled  side  by  side  on  their  .-lender  perch,  and  Gertrude 
has  thrown  a  warm  coveriiiLT  over  them,  that  they  Tiiiirht 
not  suffer  from  the  cold  niirhl  air.  She  has  locked  the  doors, 
made  all  things  safe  and  comfortable,  and  now  sits  down 
to  read,  to  meditate,  and  |-rav.  H<T  trials  and  cares  are 
multiplying.  A  v;re:i1  :  <  '  "—  her  in  the  face,  and  ;». 
^rca'  respoiisiiiility :  but  .-he  ,-hrink's  n.it  from  either.  Xo! 
on  tlie  contrary,  s.he  thanks  God  that  ^he  io  here;  that  she 


T1IK  LAMl'LidllTEll  119 


had  the  resolution  to  forsake  pleasure  and  ease,  and  in 
spite  of  her  own  weakness  and  man's  wrath,  to  place  her- 
self in  the  front  of  life's  battle,  and  hnncly  wait  its  issues. 
She  thanks  God  that  she  kt:o\\>  \\  here  to  look  for  help. 
But,  though  her  '  ".->rt  is  brave  ar,d  her  faith  linn,  she  has 
a  woman's  tender  nature;  ami,  as  she  sits  alone  she  weeps 
—  weeps  for  herself,  and  for  him  who.  far  away  in  a  foreign 
land,  is  counting  the  days,  the  months,  and  years  which 
shall  restore  him  to  a  mother  lie  is  destined  lever  to  see 
again.  But  remembering  thaf  she  is  to  stand  in  the  plaee 
of  a.  child  to  that  parent,  and  that  her  hand  must  soothe 
the  pillow  of  the  invalid,  and  minister  to  all  her  wants, 
comes  the  sterm  necessity  of  self-control  —  a  necessity  to 
which  Gertruue  ha.:  long  since  learned  to  submit  —  and, 
rallying  all  her  calmness  and  fortitude,  she  wipes  away  the 
tears,  and  commends  hemli  to  Him  who  is,  strength  to  the 
weak  and  comfort  to  the  sorrowing. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE  VI 51  OX. 

IT  was  fortunate  for  Gertrude  that  the  vacation  at  Mr. 
W.'s  school  was  approaching,  when  she  would  be  more  at 
leisure  to  at  tend  to  her  multiplied  cares.  She  considered 
herself  favoured  in  obtaining  the  services  of  Jane,  who 
consented  to  come  and  help  Miss  Gertrude.  She  did  nut, 
she  said,  exactly  like  living  out.  bin  couldn't  refuse  a. 
young  lady  who  had  been  so  good  to  them  in  times  past. 
Gertrude  had  feared  thar,  with  Nan  Grant  sick  in  the 
house,  Mrs.  Miller  would  i;"i  be  able  to  give  up  he:  eldest 
daughter;  but  Mary,  a  second  girl.  Tuning  returned  home 
unexpectedly,  one  of  them  could  be  spared.  Under 


pty 


an 


150  TIM  LAMITJGITTRIL 

Therefore,  night  after  night  found  her  watching  by  the 
bedside  of  the  sick  woman,  who,  still  delirious,  had  entirely 
lost  the  dread  she  had  at  first  seemed  to  feel  at  her  pres- 
ence. Nan  talked  much  of  little  <  ierty —sometimes  in  u 
wav  that  led  <<eririide  to  believe  herself  recognised,  but 
more  frequently  as  if  the  child  were  supposed  to  be  absent; 
and  it  was  not  until  a  lone,  time  after  that  (iertrude  was 
led  to  adopt  the  correct  supposition,  which  was,  that  sho 
had  been  mistaken  for  her  mother,  whom  she  much  re- 
sembled, and  whom,  though  tended  in  her  last  sickness  by 
Nian  herself,  the  fevered  and  conscience-stricken  sufferer 
believed  had  come  back  to  claim  her  child  at  her  hands. 
It  was  on]\-  [he  continued  assurances  of  good-will  on 
(Gertrude's  parr,  and  her  unwearied  efforts  to  soothe  and 
comfort  her.  that  tinallvled  Nan  to  the  belief  that  the 
injured  mother  had  found  her  child  in  safety,  and  was 
ignorant  of  the  wrongs  and  un'..:ndness  she  had  endured. 

One  night— it  was  the  last  of  \  -'s  lift — (Jertrude,  who 
had  scarcelv  left  her  during  the  av,  ami  was  still  watch- 
ing, heard  her  own  name  mingl  'd  v'ith  those  of  others  in 
a  few  rapid  sentences.  Sin-  listened  intently,  for  slit1  was 
always  in  hopes,  during  these  ravings,  to  train  some  infor- 
mation concerning  her  own  early  life,  iler  name  was  not 
repeated,  however.  ,:nd  for  some  time  the  muttering  of 
Nan's  voice  was  indistinct.  Thou,  suddenly  starting  up 
and  addressing  herself  t<.  some  imaginary  person,  she 
shouted  aloud.  "  Siephie!  Siephie !  u'i ve  me  back  the  watch, 
and  t"ll  me  what  you  did  with  the  rings?  -They  will  ask 
—those  folks!  -and  what  shall  1  tell  them?'5  Then,  after 
a  pause,  she  said,  in  a  more  feeble,  but  equally  earnest 
voice,  "  N'o.  no.  S'ephie.  1  never'!!  tel|--|  tn-i'iT.  t/t'/'i-r 
will!'  The  moment  the  words  had  left  her  lips,  she 
•started,  iiirned.  -aw  <••  ling  liy  the  bedside,  and 

with  a  frightful  look,  shrieked,  rather  than  a>ked,  "  Hid 
you  hear?  \i\'\  \  a.i  hear?  You  did/'  continued  she, 
"and  Voii'll  tell!  <)h.  if  vou  (/<>!''  Siie  was  here  prepar- 
ing to  spring  from  the  b'-d,  but  o\ercomc  with  exhaustion, 
sunk  ba 'k  on  the  pillow.  Summoning  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Miller,  the  agitated  <i  •"  r a-'  .  believing  that  her  own  pres- 
ence was  too  exciting,  \>  ft  the  dying  woman  to  thei'r  care, 
und  sought  another  pai't  of  the  house.  Learning,  about 
an  hour  afterward-,  from  Mrs.  Miller,  that  Nan  had  be- 
come comparatively  calm,  bin  seemed  near  her  end, 


Tin:  LAMPi.jdiiTF.n.  151 

Gertriule  thought  it  best  not  to  enter  the  room  again;  and, 
sitting  down  by  the  kitchen  lire,  pandered  over  the  strange 
scene  she  had  witnessed.  Day  was  just  dawning  when  Mrs. 
Miller  came  to  tell  her  that  Nan  had  breathed  her  last. 

Gertv's  work  of  mercy,  forgiveness,  and  Christian  love 
being  thus  finished,  she  hastened  home  to  recruit  her 
/strength,  and  fortify  herself  for  the  labour  and  suffering 
yet  in  store  for  her.  in  three  weeks  from  Nan  Grant's 
death,  Paul  Cooper  was  smitten  by  the  Destroyer's  hand; 
and  he,  too,  was  laid  to  his  last  rest:  and  though  the 
deepest  feelings  of  Gertrude's  heart  were  not  in  either  case 
fully  awakened,  it  was  no  slight  call  upon  the  mental  and 
physical  endurance  of  a  girl  of  eighteen  to  bear  up  under 
the  self-imposed  duties  caused  bv  each  event,  and  that, 
too,  at  a,  time  when  her  mind  was  racked  bv  the  apprehen- 
sion of  a  new  and  more  intense  grief.  Kmily's  absence 
was  aiso  a  sore  trial  to  her,  for  she  was  accustomed  to  rely 
upon  her  for  advice  and  counsel,  and  in  seasons  of  peculiar 
distress,  to  learn  patience  and  submission.  Only  one 
letter  had  been  received  from  the  travellers,  and  that, 
written  by  Mrs.  Ellis,  contained  little  that  was  satisfac- 
tory. It  was  written  from  Ilavanna.  where  they  were 
boarding  in  a  house  kept  bv  an  American  lady,  and 
crowded  with  visitors  from  I'uston,  N'evv  York,  and  other 
northern  cities. 

'•'It  air't  so  very  pleasant,  after  all.  Gertrude,"  wrote 
Mrs.  Ellis,  "and  1  wish  we  were  safe  home  again:  and  not 
on  my  own  account  either,  so  much  as  Emily's.  She  feels 
kind  of  strange  here;  and  no  wonder,  for  it's  a  dreadful 
uncomfortable  sort  of  a  place.  The  windows  have  no 
glass  about  them,  but  are  grated  like  a  prison:  and  there 
is  not  a  carpet  in  the  house,  ::or  a  fi re-place,  though  some- 
times the  mornings  are  cold.  There's-  a  widow  here,  with 
a  lirother  and  some  nieces.  The  widow  is  a  Haunting  kind 
of  a  woman,  that  1  begin  to  think  is  either  setting  her  cap 
for  Mr.  Graham,  or  means  to  make  an  old  fool  of  him. 
She  is  one  of  your  loud-talking  women,  that  dress  up  a 
good  deal,  and  like  to  take  the  lead:  and  M  r.  ( i  raltam  is 
sillv  enough  to  follow  after  h<T  party,  and  goto  all  soils 
of  rides  and  excursions;  it's  so  ~rnlit'«l<>  and  he  over 
sixty-five  years  old !  Emily  and  1  have  pretty  much  cb  ne 
going  into  the  parlour,  for  these  gay  folks  don't  take  any 
sort  of  notice  of  ua.  .E;mly  doesn't  say  a  word,  or  com 


152  THK  LAMPLIGHTER. 

plain  a  hit,  hut  I  know  she  is  not  happy  here,  and  would 
be  glad  to  be  hack  in  Hoston;  and  so  should  1,  if  it  wasn't 
for  that  horrid  steamboat.  1  liked  to  have  died  with  sea- 
sickness, Gertrude,  coming  out;  and  1  dread  going  home 
so,  that  1  don't  know  what  to  do. " 

Gertrude  wrote  frequently  to  Emily,  hut,  as  Miss  Grahan: 
was  dependent  upon  Mrs.  Kllis's  eyesight,  and  the  letters 
must,  therefore,  be  subject  to  her  scrutiny,  she  could  not 
express  her  innermost  thoughts  and  feelings  as  she  was 
wont  to  ilo  in  conversation  with  her  sympathising  and  in- 
dulgent friend.  Every  Indian  mail  brought  news  from 
William  Sullivan,  who,  prosperous  in  business,  and  ren- 
dered happy  even  in  his  exiie  by  the  belief  that  the  friends 
beloved  best  were  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  fruits  of  his 
exertions,  wrote  always  in  a  strain  of  cheerfulness. 

One  Sabbath  afternoon,  a  few  week's  after  Mi'.  Cooper's 
death,  found  Gertrude  with  an  open  letter  in  her  hand, 
the  numerous  post-marks  upon  the  outside  of  which  pro- 
claimed from  whence  it  came.  It  had  that  day  been  re- 
ceived, and  Mrs.  Sullivan,  as  she  lay  stretched  upon  the 
couch,  had  been  listening  for  the  third  time  to  the  read- 
ing of  its  contents.  The  bright  hopes  expressed  by  her 
son,  and  the  gay  tone  in  which  he  wrote,  all  unconscious 
of  the  cloud  of  sorrow  that,  was  gathering  for  him,  formed 
so  striking  a  contrast  to  her  own  reflections,  that  she  lay 
with  her  eyes  closed,  and  oppressed  with  an  unwont"d  de- 
gree of  sadness;  while  Gertrude,  as  she  glanced  at  the 
passage  in  which  \\illie  dilaied  upon  the  "joy  of  once 
more  clasping  in  his  arms  the  dear  mother  whom  he  so 
longed  to  sec  a^ain,"  and  then  turned  her  i^aze  upon  the 
wasted  form  and  cheek  of  that  mother,  felt  a  chill  at  her 
heart.  Dr.  Jeremy's  first  fears  were  confirmed,  and,  her 
disea-e  still  further  a^irravated  by  the  anxiety  which  at- 
tended hei1  father's  sickness  and  death.  Mrs.  Sullivan  was 


Win-;  MIT  she  was  herself  aware  of  this  Gertrude  had  not 
ret  been  aide  to  determine.  She  had  never  spoken  upon 
Uie  subject,  or  intimated  a  conviction  of  her  approaching 
end:  and  Gertrude  was  almo-1  inclined  to  belie\e  that  she 
wa-  deceiving  her.-elf  with  the  expectation  of  recovery. 
All  don't)!  oi  this  was  soon  removed:  for  after  remaining 
u  shor;  time  en_rared  m  lieen  thought,  or  perhaps-  ill 


TIIF.  LAMPTJCWTER.  If/', 

prayer,  Mrs.  Sullivan  opened  her  eyes,  fixed  them  upon 
the  young  attendant,  and  said,  in  a  calm,  distinct  voice — • 
"  Gertrude,  1  shall  never  see  Willie  again."  Gertrude 
made  no  reply. 

"  I  wish  to  write  and  tell  him  so  myself,  or,  rather,  if 
you  will  write  for  me,  I  should  like  to  tell  you  what  to 
say;  and  I  feel  that  no  time  is  to  he  lost,  for  1  ,1111  failing 
fast,  and  may  not  long  have  .strength  enough  to  do  it.  It 
will  devolve  upon  yon,  m\  child,  to  let  him  know  when 
all  is  over;  hut  you  have  had  too  many  sad  duties  already, 
and  it  will  spare  yon  somewhat  to  have  me  prepare  him  to 
hear  had  news.  Will  you  commence  a  letter  to-dav  ?  " 

"Certainly,  auntie,  if  you  think  it  hest." 

"1  do,  Gerty.  What  you  wrote  by  the  last  mail  was  my 
father's  sickness  and  death;  and  there  was  nothing  men- 
tioned likely  to  alarm  him  on  my  account,  was  there;"' 
"  Nothing  at  all." 

"  '('hen  it  is  time  he  should  he  forewarned,  poor  hov!  I 
do  not  need  Dr.  Jeremy  to  tell  me  that  I  am  dying." 

"  ])id  he  tell  you  so?"  asked  (lertrnde,  as  she  went  to 
her  desk,  and  hegan  to  arrange  her  writing  materials. 

"No,  Gerty!  he  was  too  prudent  for  that;  hut  I  told 
him  and  he  did  not  contradict  me.  Yon  have  known  it 
some  time,  have  you  not?"  inquired  she,  gazing  earnestly 
in  the  face  of  Gertrude. 

"Some  weeks,"  replied  Gertrude,  as  she  spoke  imprint- 
ing a  kiss  upon  the  pale  hrow  of  the  sullerer. 

"'  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  ?" 

"  AVhy  should  I.  dear  auntie?"  said  Gertrude.  "I 
knew  the  Lord  could  never  call  yen  at  a  time  when  your 
lamp  would  not  he  trimmed  and  burning." 

"  Feebly,  it  burns  feebly!  "  said  she. 

"  Whose,  then,  is  bright,"  said  Gertrude,  "if  yours  he 
dim!  Have  you  not,  for  years  past,  been  a  living  lesson  of 
pietv  ?  Unless  it  be  Kmily,  auntie,  I  know  of  no  one  who 
seems  so  fit  for  heaven." 

"Oh,  no,  Gerty!  I  am  a  sinful  creature,  full  of  weak- 
ness; much  as  I  Ion<:  to  meet  my  Saviour,  my  earthly 
heart  pines  with  the  vain  desire  for  one  more  sight  of  my 
boy,  and  all  mv  dreams  of  heaven  are  mingled  with  the 
aching  regret  that  the  one  blessing  1  most,  craved  on  earth 
has  been  denied  me. " 

"  Oh,  auntie!  "  exclaimed  Gertrude,  "  we  are  all  human! 


154  THE  LAUPIJGHTKR 

Until  the  mortal  puts  on  immortality,  how  can  you  cease 
to  think  of  Willie,  and  long  fur  his  presence  in  this  trying 
hour!  It  cannot  he  a  sin— that  which  is  so  natural! 

"  I  do  nut  know,  Gerty;  pei  haps  it  is  not  ;  and,  if  it  be, 
I  trust  before  1  go  hence,  I  shall  be  blessed  with  a  spirit 
of  perfect  submission,  to  atone  for  the  occasional  mur- 
muring of  a  mother's  heart?  .Read  to  me,  my  dear,  some 
Uoly  words  of  comfort;  you  always  seem  to  open  the  good 
book  at  the  passage  1  most  need.  It  is  sinful,  indeed,  to 
me,  Gertrude,  to  indulge  the  least  repining,  blessed  as  1 
am  in  the  love  and  care  of  one  who  is  dear  to  me  as  a 
daughter!" 

Gertrude  took  her  Hible,  and  opening  it  at  the  Gospel 
of  St.  Mark,  her  eye  fell  upon  the  account  of  Our  Saviour's 
agony  in  the  garden  of  Gethsemane.  She  rightly  believed 
that  nothing  could  be  mono  appropriate  to  Mrs.  Sullivan's 
state  of  mind  than  the  touching  description  of  the  struggle 
of  our  Lord's  humanity;  nothing  more  likely  to  sooth  her 
spirit,  and  reconcile  her  to  the  occasional  rebellion  of  hei 
own  mortal  nature,  then  the  evident  contest  of  the  human 
•with  the  divine  so  thrillingly  narrated  by  the  disciple; 
and  that  nothing  could  be  more  inspiring  than  the  exam- 
ple of  that  holy  Son  of  God,  who  ever  to  His  thrice- 
repeated  praver  that,  if  possible,  the  cup  mi^ht  pass  from 
him,  added  the  pious  ejaculation,  "  Thy  will,  not  mine,  be 
done."''  The  words  were  not  without  etl'ect  ;  for,  when  she 
had  finished,  she  observed  that  as  Mrs.  Sullivan  lay  still 
vpon  her  couch,  her  lips  seemed  to  be  repealing  the 
Saviour's  prayer.  Not  wishing  to  disturb  hei  meditations, 
Geitrude  made  no  reference  to  the  proposed  letter  to 
Willie,  but  sat  silently,  and  Mrs.  Sullivan  fell  asleep. 
It  was  a  gentle  slumber,  and  Gertrude  sat  and  watched 
.  A'ith  pleasure  the  peaceful  happy  expression  of  hei  fea- 
V  ti  res.  Darkness  had  come  on  before  she  awoke,  and  so 
shrouded  the  room  that  Gertrude,  who  still  sat  there,  was 
invisible  in  the  gloom.  She  started  on  hearing  her  name, 
and.  hastily  lighting  a  candle,  approached  the  coiiclu 

"  O,  Gertrude!  ''  said  Mrs.  Sullivan.  "  1  have  had  such  a 
beautiful  dream!  Sit  down  by  me.  my  dear,  ami  let  me 
tell  it  to  you;  it  could  not  have  been  more  vivid,  if  it  had 
all  been  reality: — 

THK  DKKAM  : — "I  thought  1  was  sailing  rapidly  through 
the  air,  and  for  some  Uiuti  i  seemed  to  tloat  on  and  uii, 


TT7T7TT      7     1    IfJ'F    7  f  7T'r't?' n  1   f  ,* 

J ///i     LAMl  LlUiri  hti.  10.) 

over  clouds  and  among  bright  stars.  The  motion  was  so 
gentle  that  1  did  not  grow  \\ear\,  though  in  my  journey  1 
travelled  over  land  and  sea.  At  last  1  saw  beneath  me  a 
beautiful  city,  with  churches,  towers,  monuments,  and 
throngs  of  gay  people  moving  in  every  direction.  As  I 
drew  nearer,  1  eoirtd  distinguish  the  fares  oi'  these  numer- 
ous men  and  women,  and  among  them,  in  the  c  owded 
•  street,  there  was  one  who  looked  like  Willie.  J  fallowed 
him,  and  soon  felt  sure  it  was  he.  lie  looked  older  than 
when  we  saw  him  last,  and  much  as  1  have  always  im- 
agined him,  since  the  descriptions  he  has  given  in  his 
letters  of  the  change  that  has  taken  place  in  his  appear- 
ance. I  followed  him  through  several  streets,  and  at  last 
he  turned  into  a  fine,  large  building,  which  stood  near  the 
centre  of  the  city.  1  went  in  also.  We  passed  through 
large  halls  and  beautifully  furnished  rooms,  and  at  last 
stood  in  a  dining-saloon,  in  the  middle  of  which  was  a 
table  covered  with  bottles,  glasses,  and  the  remains  of  a 
rich  desert,  such,  as  1  never  saw  before.  There  was  a 
group  of  young  men  round  the  table,  all  well-dressed,  and 
some  of  tfiem  fine-looking,  so  that  at  iirst  I  was  quite 
charmed  with  their  appearance,  1  seemed,  however,  to 
have  a  strange  power  of  looking  into  their  hearts,  and  de- 
tecting all  the  evil  ther*1  was  there.  One  had  a  very 
bright,  intelligent  face,  and  might  have  been  thought  a 
man  of  talent — and  so  he  was;  but  1  could  see  better  than 
people  usually  can,  and  I  perceived,  by  a  sort  of  instinct, 
that  all  his  mind  and  genius  were  converted  into  a  means 
of  duping  and  deceiving  those  who  were  so  foolish  or  so 
ignorant  as  to  be  ensnared. 

"Another  seemed  by  his  wit  and  drollery  to  be  the 
charm  of  the  company:  but  1  could  detect  marks  of  in- 
toxication. 

'  "A  third  was  vainly  attempting  to  look  happy:  but  his 
soul  was  bared  to  my  searching  gaze,  and  1  saw  that  he 
had  the  day  before  lost  at  the  gaming-table  his  own  a'.id  a 
part  of  his  employer's  money,  and  was  tortured  with 
anxiety  lest  he  might  not  this  evening  win  it  back. 

"There  were  many  others  present,  and  all.  more  or  less, 
sunk  in  dissipation,  had  reached  various  stages  on  the 
road  to  ruin.  Their  i'ace<.  however,  looked  gay.  and,  as 
Willie  glanced  from  one  to  another,  he  seemed  pleased  and 
attracted. 

"  One  oi  them  oilered  him^a  sw.t  ut  thy  table,  and  uil 


l.'iG  TTTE  LAMPLIGHTER. 

urged  him  to  take  it.  lie  did  so,  and  the  young  man  at 
his  right  filled  a  glass  \vi;h  bright  wine,  and  handed  it  to 
him.  lie  hesitated,  then  took  it  and  raised  it  to  his  lips. 
Just  then  1  touched  him  on  the  shoulder.  He  turned, 
sa\v  me,  and  instantly  the  glass  fell  from  his  hand,  and 
was  broken.  I  beckoned,  and  he  rose  and  followed  me. 
The  g  T  circle  he  had  left,  called  loudly  upon  him  to' 
return;  one  of  them  even  laid  a  hand  upon  his  arm.  and 
tr'.ed  t».)  detain  him;  lint  he  would  not  listen  or  stay — he 
shook  off  the  hand,  and  we  went  on.  l>efore  \ve  had  got 
outside  the  building",  the  man  whom  I  had  lirst  noticed, 
and  whom  I  knew  to  be  the  most  artful  of  the  company, 
came  out  from  a  room  near  the  door,  which  he  had 
reached  by  some  other  direction,  and,  approaching  Willie, 
whispered  in  his  ear.  \Villie  faltered,  turned,  and  would 
perhaps,  ha\~e  gone  hack;  but  I  stood  in  front  of  him,  held 
up  my  linger  menacingly,  and  shook  my  head.  lie  hesi- 
tated no  longer,  but,  Hinging  aside  the  tempter,  rushed 
out  of  the  door,  and  was  instantly  down  the  long  flight  of 
steps.  I  seemed  to  moye  with  great  rapidity,  and  was  soon 
guiding  my  son  through  the  intricate,  crowded  streets  of 
the  city.  Many  were  the  snares  we  found  laid  for  the 
unwary.  More  than  once  my  watchful  eye  saved  the 
thoughtless  boy  by  my  side  from  some  pitfall  or  danger, 
into  which,  without  me,  he  would  have  fallen.  Occa- 
sionally I  lost  sight  of  him.  and  had  to  turn  back;  once  he 
was  separated  from  me  by  the  crowd,  and  missed  his  way, 
and  once  he  lingered  to  witness  or  join  in  some  sinful 
amusements.  Each  time,  however,  ho  listened  to  my 
warning  voice,  and  we  went  on  in  safety. 

"  At  last,  however,  in  passing  through  a  brilliantly- 
lighted  street — for  it  was  now  evening — I  suddenly  ob- 
served that  he  was  absent  from  my  side.  I  hunted  the 
streets,  and  called  him  by  name:  but  there  wa<=  no  answer. 
1  then  unfolded  my  wings,  and,  soaring  high  above  the 
crowded  town,  surveyed  the  whole,  hoping  that  in  that 
one  glance  I  might,  as  I  had  at  lirst  done,  detect  my  boy. 

"  1  was  not  disappointed.  In  a  gorgeous  hall,  dazzlingly 
lit,  and  tilled  with  a  fashio?iabl«  crowd.  I  beheld  Willie. 
A  brilliant  young  creature  was  leaning  on  his  arm,  and  I 
saw  into  her  heart,  and  knew  that  she  was  not  blind  to 
his  beauty  or  insensible  to  his  attractions.  But,  oh !  I  treni- 
blfu  for  him  now!  She  was,  lovely  and  rich,  aiid  also 


T1IK  LAMPLIGHTER.  157 

fashionable  and  admired.  P>ut  1  S;;AV  info  her  soul,  and 
she  was  proud,  coid-he.arled,  and  worldly;  and  if  sha 
loved  Willie,  it  \va.s  his  beauty,  ids  winning  manners,  and 
his  smile  that  pieas-d  her— not  his  nobie  nature,  which  she 
knew  not  how  to  prize.  As  they  promenaded  through  the 
hull,  and  she,  whom  crowds  were  praising,  gave  all  her 
time  and  thoughts  to  him,  I,  descending  in  an  invisible 
shape,  and  standing  by  his  side,  touched  his  sh<>n!dei. 
lie  looked  around,  but,  before  he  could  see  his  mother's 
face,  the  siren's  voice  attracted  all  iiis  attention.  Again 
and  again  J  endeavoured  to  win  him  awav:  but  he  heard 
me  not.  At  length  she  spoke  some  word  that  bet  raved  to 
my  high-minded  boy  the  folly  and  selfishness  of  her 
worldly  soui.  I  seized  the  m. uncut  when  she  had  thus 
weakened  her  hold  upon  him.  and.  clasping  him  in  my 
arms,  spread  my  wings,  and  soared  far,  far  awav,  bearing 
with  me  the  prize  1  had  toiled  after  and  won.  As  we 
rose  into  the  air,  my  manly  son  became  in  my  encircling 
arms  a  child  again,  and  there  rested  on  my  bosom  the 
same  little  head,  with  its  soft,  silken  cnrls,  that  had 
nestled  there  in  infancy.  J>ack  we  flew,  over  sea  and 
land,  and  paused  not  until,  on  a  soft,  grassy  slope,  under 
the  shade  of  green  trees,  J  thought  J.  saw  my  darling 
Gerty,  and  was  Hying  to  lay  my  precious  boy  at  her  feet, 
when  I  awoke  pronouncing  your  name." 

"And  now,  Gertrude,  the  bitterness  of  the  cup  I  am 
called  upon  to  drink  is  passed  away.  A  blessed  angel  has 
ministered  unto  me.  1  no  longer  wish  to  sec  my  son  again 
on  earth,  for  1  am  persuaded  that  my  departure  is  in 
accordance  with  the  schemes  of  a  merciful  Providence1.  I 
now  believe  that  Willie's  living  mother  might  be  power- 
less to  turn  him  from  temptation  and  evil:  but  the  spirit 
of  that  mother  will  be  mighty  still,  and  in  the  thought 
that  she,  in  her  home  beyond  the  skies,  is  ever  watching 
around  his  path,  and  striving  to  lead  him  in  the  narrow 
way,  he  may  lind  a  truer  shield 
to  his  tempted  soul,  than  she 
earth.  Xow,  oh,  my  Father,  I 
my  heart,  'Thy  will,  not  mine, 

From  this  time   nut  il  her  dea 
A  month  afterward,  Mrs.    Su 
state  of  perfect  resignation.     Thu  !a&t  pang  had  lost  its 


158  T11K  LA 

bitterness.  In  the  letter  which  she  dictated  to  Willie,  she 
expressed  her  trust  in  the  goodness  and  wisdom  of  Provi- 
dence, and  exhorted  him  to  cherish  the  same  submissive 
love  for  the  All-wise.  She  reminded  him  of  the  early 
lessons  she  had  taught,  him,  the  piety  and  self-command 
which  she  had  inculcated,  and  made  it  her  dying  prayer 
that  her  influence  might  he  increased,  rather  than  dimin- 
ished, and  her  presence  felt  to  be  a  continual  reality. 

After  (.iertrude  had  folded  the  letter,  and  left  for  he! 
duties  in  school,  Mrs.  Sullivan  re-opened  the  sheet,  and. 
with  hei  feeble  hand,  recounted  the  disinterested  ami 
loving  devotion  of  Gertrude,  thus:  "  So  long,  my  son- as 
you  cherish  in  your  heart  the  memory  of  your  grandfather 
and  mother,  cease  not  to  bestow  all  the  gratitude  of  which 
that  heart  is  capable  upon  one  whose  praises  my  hand  is 
too  feeble  to  pourtray.''' 

So  slow  and  gradual  was  the  decline  of  Mrs.  Sullivan, 
that  her  death  at  last  came  as  an  unexpected  blow  to  (ier- 
trude, who,  though  she  saw  the  ravages  of  disease,  could 
not  realise  that  a  termination  must  come  to  their  work.  In 
the  dead  hours  of  the  night,  wiih  no  one  to  sustain  and 
encourage  her  but  the  frightened  Jane,  did  she  watch  the 
departing  spirit  of  her  much-loved  friend.  "  Are  you 
afraid  to  see  me  die,  Gertrude?'''  asked  Mrs.  Sullivan,  an 
hour  before  her  death.  On  Gertrude's  answering  that  she 
was  not — "Then  turn  me  a  little  towards  you,"  said  she. 
"  that  yotir  fuce>  n;y  darling,  may  be  the  last  to  me  ol 
earth."' 

It  was  done,  anil,  with  her  hand  locked  fast  in  Ger- 
trude's, and  a  look  that  spoke  the  deepest  affection,  she 
expired. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

MORE    f  HA  Mil'S. 

NOT  until  her  work  of  low  v.  a-1  ended  did  Gertrude  be- 
come conscious  that  her  Icii'..'  i  belied  labours  by  night  and 
dav  had  worn  upon  h.-i  frame,  and  exhausted  her  strength. 
For  a  week  after  Mrs.  Sulinan  was  in  her  grave,  Dr. 
Jeremv  feared  a  severe  illness  ioa  (iertrude.  But,  after 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  150 

struggling  with  her  dangerous  symptoms  for  several  days, 
she  rallied;  and,  though  still  pale  and  worn  by  care  and 
anxiety,  was  able  to  resume  her  school  duties,  and  make 
arrangements  for  another  home. 

Several  homes  had  been  oll'ered  to  her,  with  a  warmth  and 
cordiality  which  made  it  difficult  to  decline  their  accept- 
ance; but  Gertrude,  though  deeply  touched  by  the  kind- 
ness thus  manifested  towards  her  in  her  loneliness,  pre- 
ferred to  seek  a  permanent  boarding-place,  and  when  the 
grounds  on  which  she  based  her  decision  were  understood 
by  her  friends,  they  approved  her  course. 

.Mrs.  Jeremy  at  first,  felt  hurt  at  Gertrude's  refusal  to  live 
with  them  for  any  length  of  time  that  she  chose:  and  the 
doctor  was  so  peremptory  with  his  '•  Come,  Gertrude,  come 
right  home  with  us-- don't  say  a  word!"  that  she  was 
afraid  lest,  in  her  weak  state  of  health,  she  should  be  car- 
ried off,  without  a  i:lnmc<--  to  remonstrate.  I'ut,  after  he 
had  taken  upon  himself  to  give  Jane  orders  about  [lacking 
her  clothes  and  sending  them  after  her,  and  then  locking 
up  the  house,  lie  gave  Gertrude  1111  opportunity  to  state 
her  reasons  for  wishing  to  decline  the  generous  proposal. 

]5ut  all  her  reasoning  upon  general  principles  proved 
insufficient  to  convince  the  warm-hearted  couple.  "  It 
was  all  nonsense  about  independent  position.  She  would 
be  perfectly  independent  with  them,  and  her  company 
would  be  such  a  pleasure  that  she  need  feel  no  hesitation 
in  accepting  their  offer,  and  might,  be  sure  she  would  be 
conferring  a  favour,  instead  of  being  the  party  obliged.'" 
At  last  she  was  compelled  to  make  use  of  an  argument 
which  had  great  I  v  influenced  her  own  mind,  and  would, 
she  felt  sure,  carrv  no  little  weight  will)  it  in  the  doctor's 
own  estimation. 

"  Dr.  Jeremy,"  said  she,  "  I  hope  you  will  not  condemn 
in  me  a  motive  which  has,  strengthened  my  firmness  in 
this  matter.  1  should  he  unwilling  to  mention  it  if  I  did 
7iot  know  that  you  are  so  far  acquainted  with  the  state  ot 
affairs  between  M  r.  <  <' raham  and  mv>eli  as  to  understand 
and  sympathize  with  mv  feelings.  Von  know  that  he  was 
opposed  to  my  leavin::  lih'in  and 
winter,  and  must  suspect  th 
ho!,  a  perfectly  MO."'.!  u 
hinted  that,  i  shoui<:  never 
should  bo  driven  to  a  ufo  of  dependence;  and,  since  the 


!«(>  TI1K  LAMPLIGHTER. 

salary  which  I  receive  from  Mr.  W.  is  sufficient  for  al'i  my 
wants,  I  wish  to  be  so  situated  on  Mr.  (iraham's  return 
that  he  will  perceive  that  my  assurance  that  1  could  earn 
my  own  living  was  not  without  foundation.'' 

"So  (Jraham  thought  that,  without  his  sustaining 
power,  you  would  soon  come  to  beggary — did  lie?  With 
your  talents,  too?"  that's  just  like  him!" 

"Oh,  110,110!"  replied  (Jertrnde.  "  1  did  not  say  that; 
but  1  seemed  to  him  a  mere  child,  and  he  did  not  realise 
that  iii  giving  me  an  education  he  had  paid  my  expenses 
in  advance.  It  was  very  natural  he  should  distrust  my 
capacity  — he  had  never  seen  me  compelled  to  exert 
myself." 

"I  understand — I  understand,"  said  the  doctor.  "He 
thought  you  would  be  glad  enough  to  come  back  to  them; 
yes,  yes,  just  like  him!  " 

"Well,  now,"  said  Mrs.  Jeremy,"!  don't  believe  he 
thought  any  such  thing.  He  was  provoked,  and  didn't 
mind  what  he  said.  Ten  to  one  he  will  never  think  of  it 
again,  and  it  seems  to  me  it  is  only  a  kind  of  pride  in  (ler- 
trude  to  care  anything  about  it." 

"I  don't  know  that,  wife,"  said  the  doctor.  "If  it  is 
pride,  it's  an  honourable  pride  that  I  like;  and  I  am  not 
sure  but,  if  I  were  in  Gertrude's  place,  I  should  feel  just 
as  she  does;  so  !  shan't  urge  her  to  do  any  other  wavs, 
than  she  proposes.  She  can  have  a  hoarding-place,  and 
yet  spend  much  of  her  time  with  us." 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Jeremy;  "and.  if  you  feel  set 
about  it,  (ierty,  dear,  1  am  sure1  I  shall  want  you  to  do 
whatever  pleases  you  best;  but  one  tiling  I  do  insist  on, 
and  that  is,  that  you  leave  this  house,  which  must.  look. 
Very  dreary,  this  verv  day,  go  home  with  me,  and  stay 
unt  il  you  get  recruited." 

(Jertrude,    ".'ladiv   consenting    to  a   short    visit,  compro 
inised  the   mailer  bv   accompanying    them    without    delav. 
and   it  was   ehiellv  owing   to  the  doctor'.- 
and  care  bestowed  up<>n  his  young  guest, 
Tiur.-iiiL1'  of  Mr-.  Jcremv,  that  she  escape' 
had  threatened  her. 

Mr.  and  Mr-.  W.,  who  Ml 
pre-^ci  1  her  t<  i   come    i  o   t  hei: 
ret  urn  of  M  r.  <  >  ra  ham   and 
by  her   tii.it  ;-he  was   unaware   of  the   period    of   their  ab- 


TfTK  LA 

sence,  and  should  not  probably  reside  with  them  for  the 
future,  they  were  satisfied  that  the  acted  with  wisdom  and 
judgment  in  at  once  providing  hei>elf  wi'h  an  indepen- 
dent situation. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Arnold,  who  had  been  constant  in  their 
attentions,  both  to  Mrs.  Sullivan  and  Gertrude,  and  were, 
the  only  persons,  except  the  physician,  who  had  been  ad- 
mitted to  the  sick  room  of  the  invalid,  felt  that  they  had 
a  peculiar  claim  to  the  care  of  the  doubly-orphaned  girl,  and 
urged  her  to  become  a  member  of  their  household.  Mr. 
Arnold's  family  being  large,  and  his  house  and  -alarv  small, 
true  benevolence  alone  prompted  this  proposal;  and  on 
Gertrude's  acquainting  his  economical  and  prudent  wife 
with  the  ample  means  she  enjoyed  from  her  own  exer- 
tions, and  the  decision  she  had  formed  of  procuring  an  in- 
dependent home,  she  received  the  warm  approbation  of 
both,  and  found  in  the  latter  an  excellent  adviser  and 
assistant. 

Mrs.  Arnold  had  a  widowed  sister  who  was  in  the  habit 
of  receiving,  as  boarders,  a.  few  young  ladies,  (iertrude 
did  not  know  this  lady  personal1}",  but  had  heard  her 
warmly  praised ;  and  she  indulged  the  hope  that  through 
her  friend,  the  minister's  wife,  she  :nignt  obtain  with  her 
an  agreeable  and  not  too  exper..-ive  residence,  in  this  she 
was  not  disappointed.  Mrs.  Warren  had  fortunately 
Vacant  a  large  front  chamber;  and.  Mrs.  Arnold  having 
recommended  Gertrude  in  the  warmest  manner,  suitable 
terms  were  agreed  upon,  and  the  room  placed  at  her  dis- 
posal. Mrs.  Sullivan  had  bequeathed  to  her  all  her  furni- 
ture, and  Mrs,  Arnold  and  her  daughters  insisted  that,  in 
consideration  of  her  recent  fatigue  and  bereavement,  she 
should  attend  only  to  her  school  duties,  and  leave  to  them 
the  furnishing  of  her  room  with  such  ail  ides  as  she  pre- 
ferred to  have  placed  there,  and  superintended  the 
ing  away  of  all  other  movables.;  for  Gertrude  was  ;n 
ing  that  anything  should  be  sold.  On  entering  tin 
ing-roorn  the  first  evening  ai'ter  she  look  M|>  her  resii 
at  Mrs.  Warren's,  she  expected 
the  tea-table,  but  was  ainveaMv 
of  Fanny  Uruco,  who.  h-fi  in  P.o 
brother  were  spending  the  win! 
been  several  weeks  an  inm  <.:e 
Faimy  was  a  school-girl,  twelve. 


162  THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 

near  neighbour  to  Gertrude,  had  been  in  the  habit  of  see- 
ing her  often  at  Mr.  Graham's,  and  had  sometimes  begged 
flowers  from  her,  borrowed  books,  and  obtained  assistance 
in  her  fancy-work.  iSho  admired  Gertrude  much;  had 
hailed  with  delight  the  prospect  of  knowing  her  better,  as 
she  hoped  to  do  at  Mrs.  Warren's:  and  when  she  met  the 
gaze  of  her  large,  dark  eyes,  and  saw  a  smile  oi'  pleasure 
overspread  her  countenance  at  the  sight,  of  a  familiar  face, 
she  came  forward  to  shake  hands,  and  beg  that  Mrs.  Flint 
would  sit  next  her  at  the  table. 

Fanny  Bruce  was  a  girl  of  good  disposition  and  warm 
heart,  but  she  had  been  much  neglected  by  her  mother, 
whose  pride  was  in  her  son,  the  same  l>en  of  whom  we  have 
previously  spoken.  She  had  often  been  left  behind  in 
some  boarding-house,  while  ner  pleasure-loving  mother 
and  indolent  brother  passed  their  time  in  journeying;  and 
had  not  always  been  so  fortunately  situated  as  she  was  at 
present. 

Gertrude  had  not  been  long  at  Mrs.  "Warren's  before  she 
observed  that  Fanny  occupied  an  isolated  position  in  the 
family.  She  was  a  few  years  younger  than  her  com- 
panions, three  dressy  misses,  who  could  not  condescend  to 
admit  her  into  her  clique.  Although  the  privacy  of  her 
own  room  was  pleasing  to  Gertrude's  feelings,  pity  for 
poor  Fanny  induced  her  to  invite  her  frequently  to  come 
and  sit  with  her,  and  she  often  so  far  forgot  her  own 
griefs  as  to  exert  herself  in  providing  entertainment  for 
her  young  visitor,  who  considered  it  a  privilege  to  share 
Gertrude's  retirement,  read  her  books,  and  feel  confident 
of  her  friendship.  During  the  stormy  month  of  March 
Fanny  spent  almost  every  evening  with  Gertrude;  and 
she,  who  at  first  felt  that  she  was  making  a  sacrifice  of 
her  comfort  and  ea::e  by  giving  another  constant  access 
to  her  apartment,  realised  the  force  of  Uncle  True's 
prophecy,  that,  in  her  efforts  for  the  happiness  of  others, 
she  would  at  last  find  her  own;  for  Fanny's  lively  and 
amusing  conversation  drew  Gertrude  from  brooding  over 
her  sorrows. 

April  arrived,  and  still  no  news  from  Emily;  Gertrncle'c 
heart  ached  with  lor.nin^  lo  oii"o  more  pour  out  her  griefs 
OH  tlu-  bosom  of  that  deal1  Crimd,  and  iind  her  consolation 
and  support.  Gertrude  had  written  regularly,  but  of  late 
she  had  uot  kuowi)  where  lo  direct  her  letters;  and 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER,  163 

Mrs.  Sullivan's  death  there  hud  been  no  communication 
between  her  and  the  travellers.  She  was  sitting  at  her 
window  one  evening,  thinking  of  those  friends  lost  by 
absence  and  by  death,  when  she  was  summoned  to  see  Mr. 
Arnold  and  his  daughter  Anne.  After  the  usual  civili- 
ties, Miss  Arnold  said,  "  Of  course  you  have  heard  the 
news,  Gertrude  ?  " 

"  No/'  replied  Gertrude.  "  I  have  heard  nothing  special/'.. 

" What !"  exclaimed  .Mr.  Arnold,  "have  you  not  heard/ 
of  Mr.  Graham's  marriage  ?  " 

Gertrude  started  up  in  surprise.  "  Do  you  really  mean 
so,  Mr.  Arnold?  Mr.  Graham  married!  When?  To 
whom  ?" 

"To  the  widow  Holbrook,  a  si.-fer-in-law  of  Mr.  Clin- 
ton's; she  has  been  slaying  at  llavanna,  with  a  party  from 
the  north,  and  the  Grahams  met  her  there."" 

"But,  Gertrude/'  asked  Mr.  Arnold,  "how  does  it 
happen  you  have  not  heard  of  it  ?  It  is  in  all  the  news- 
papers— '  Married  in  IS'cw  Orleans,  J.  II.  Graham,  Esq., 
to  Mrs.  1 1  ol  brook/" 

"  I  have  not  seen  a.  newspaper  for  a  day  or  two/'  replied 
Gertrude. 

"And  Miss  Graham's  blindness,  I  suppose,  prevents  her 
writing/' said  Anne;  "but  1  thought.  Mr.  Graham  would 
send  wedding  compliments/' 

Gertrude  made  no  reply,  and  '.Miss  Arnold  said,  "1  sup- 
pose his  bride  engrosses  all  Lis  attention." 

"Do  you  know  anything  of  this.  .Mrs.  Holbrook?" 
asked  fieri  rude. 

"Not  much,"  answered  Mr.  Arnold.  "  I  have  seen  her 
occasionally  at  Mr.  Clinton's.  She  is  a  handsome,  showy 
woman,  fond  of  society,  I  should  think/' 

"I  have  seen  her  very  oi'tcn,"  said  Anne,  "  She  is  a 
coarse,  noisy,  dashing  person,  just  the  one  to  make  Miss 
Emily  miserable.'' 

Gertrude  looked  distressed,  and  Mr.  Arnold  glanced  re- 
provingly at  her.  "Anne,''' said  he  are  you  sure  you  speak 
advisedly  ?  " 

"  Belle  Clinton  is  my  authority,  father,  I  only  judge 
from  what  I  used  to  hear  her  say  at  .-ehool  ;.bout  her 
Aunt  Bella,  as  she  a! way.-  used  to  call  her." 

**Did  Isabel  represent  her  aunt  so  unfavourably?" 


TJIK  LAMPUG1ITKK 

"Not  intentionally;   she  meant  the  greatest  praise,  but 

I  never  liked  anything  she  tr,ld  us  about  her.'' 

"  We  will  not.  condemn  her  until  we  can  decide  upon 
acquaintance.''"  said  Mr.  Arnold;  ''perhaps  she  will  prove 
the  reverse  •  f  what  you  suppose.'" 

"  Can  yon  tell  me  anything-  concerning  Emily?"  asked 
Gertrude  'and  whether  Mr.  Graham  is  soon  to  return?" 

"  Xoth  ng,"  said  Miss  Arnold.  *'  When  did  you  hcai 
from  them  yourself  ?  ' 

Gertrude  mcntioni-d  the  date  of  the  letter  from  Mrs. 
Ellis,  the  account  she  had  given  of  a  gay  party  from  tha 
north,  and  suggested  th;,t  probably  Mrs.  Graham  was  the 
widov;  she  had  described. 

"  The  same,  undoubtedly  "  said  Mr.  Arnold. 

Their  knowledge  of  fads  were  so  slight,  however, that 
little  remained  to  be  said  concerning  the  marriage,  and 
other  topics  of  conversation  were  introduced.  But  Ger- 
trude found  it  impossible  to  think  of  any  other  subject; 
the  matter  was  so  vitally  important  to  Emily,  that  her 
mind  constantly  recurred  to  it.  The  conversation  was  in- 
terrupted by  the  sudden  entrance  of  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Jeremy. 
The  former  held  in  his  hand  a  sealed  letter,  directed  to 
Gertrude,  in  *be  hand-writing  of  Mr.  Graham;  and,  as  ho 
handed  it  to  her,  lie  rubbed  his  hands,  and  looking  at 
Anne  Arnold,  exclaimed,  "  .Now,  Miss  Anne,  we  shall  hear 
all  about  these  famous  nuptials!" 

Finding  her  visitors  eau'er  to  learn  the  contents  of  her 
letter,  Gertrude  broke  the  seal,  and  hastily  perused  its 
contents.  The  envelope  eonlaiued  Uvo  or  three  pages 
closely  written  by  Mrs.  Ellis,  and  also  a  lengthy  note  from 
Mr.  Graham.  Surprised  as  <;e.rr.';.idc  was  at  any  com- 
mumcaJon  fr  m  one  who  had  parted  from  her  in  anirer, 
her  desire  was  to  hear  from  Emily,  and  she  preferred  UK- 
housekeeper's  document  as  most  likely  to  contain  the  de- 
sired information.  It  ran  as  follows: — 

"  KEW  YOKE,  M<ircl>  31,  1S52. 

"DKAR  GI:T;TU;:DK,— As  there  wero  plenty  of  Boston 
folks  at  the  wedding,  yon  have  heard  before  this  of  Mr. 
Graham's  marriage,  ii"  married  the  widow  llolbrook, 
the  same  I  wrote  to  you  :';  "n: .  Siie  was  delennined  to 
ha\e  him,  and  she's  gut  him.  I  don't  he-iiale  \»  say  he's 
got,  the  \vor.sl")'  tlie  h.-i  r;_ai );-  II'.:  likes  u  nuie.t  life,  a,ml 


THK  LAMPLIGHTER  165 

he's  lost  the  chance  of  that — poor  man! — for  she's  the 
greatest  hand  for  company  that  ever  I  saw.  She  followed 
Mr.  Graham  up  pretty  well  at  llavanna,  but  I  guess  ho 
thought  better  of  it,  and  didn'r  mean  to  have  her.  But 
when  we  got  to  New  Orleans,  aho  was  there;  and  she  car- 
ried her  point,  and  married  him.  Emily  behaved  beauti- 
fully: she  never  said  a  word  iip'ainst  it,  and  always  treated 
the  lady  as  pleasantly  as  could  be;  but,  dear  me!  how 
will  our  Emily  get  along  with  so  many  folks  about  all  the 
time,  and  so  much  noise  and  confusion?  For  my  part,  I 
an't  used  to  it,  and  it's  rot  Agreeable.  The  new  lady  is 
civil  enough  to  me,  now  .she's  married.  I  daresay  she 
thinks  it  stands  her  in  -  -'i.d.  as  long  as  she's  one  of  the 
family,  and  I've  been  in  it  so  jung.  J>ut  1  suppose  you've 
been  wondering  what  had  become  of  us,  Gertrude,  and 
will  be  surprised  to  tind  we  iuue  got  so  far  as  New  York, 
oil  our  way  home — '//;//  way  home,  for  I'm  the  only  one 
that  talks  of  coming  at  present.  1  kept  meaning  to  write 
while  v\e  were  in  New  Orleans,  but  there  was  so  much 
going  on  I  didn't  get  the  chance,  and,  after  that  horrid 
steamboat  from  Charleston  here.  1  wn;-n't  good  for  any- 
thing for  a  week.  ]>ut  Emily  wus  so  anxious  that  I 
couldn't  put  oil'  writing  any  longer.  Poor  Emily  isn't 
very  well:  I  don't  mean  tiuit  she',  downright  sick — it's 
low  spirits  more  than  anything.  IS  he  gets  fired  and  wor- 
ried very  quick,  and  easily  disturbed,  which  didn't  used  to 
be  the  case.  It  mav  be  the  new  wife,  and  all  the  nieces 
and  other  disagreeable  thing;'.  She  never  complains,  and 
nobody  would  know  but  what  she  was  pleased  to  have  her 
father  married  again:  but  .-lie  hasn't  seemed  happy  all 
winter,  and  now  it  tr.Hibles  me  to  see  how  she  looks  some- 
times. She  talks  a  siibt  about  you,  and  felt  dreadfully 
not  to  get  anv  more  letters.  J'ut  to  come  to  the  principal 
thing,  they  are  all  ir<>inr:  to  Europe— -Hmily  and  all.  I 
take  it,  it's  the  new  wife's  idea.  .Mr.  Graham  wanted  me 
to  go,  but  I  would  as  soon  be  bung  as  venture  on  the  sea 
again,  and  I  told  him  so.  So  now  lie  has  written  for  you 
to  go  with  Einilv;  and  if  YOU  are  not  afraid  of  sea-sick- 
ness, I  hope  vou  won't  refuse,  for  i;  would  be  dreadful  for 
her  to  have  a  stranger,  ;ind  y.»u  know  she  always  needs 
somebody  on  account  of  her  blindness.  I  do  not  think 
she,  has  the  least  wish  to  uo;  but  she  would  not  ask  to  be 


1G6  TIIK  T.Avrur.;nri-:iL 

left  behind,  for  four  her  father  should  think  she  did  not 
like  the  new  wife. 

"  As  soon  us  thev  sail --- -the  hi -4  of  April — I  shall  come 

back  to  the  house  in  I' ,  and   .see  to   things  there  while 

they  lire  awa\.  1  write  a  postscript  to  yon  from  Emily, 
and  we  shall  be  very  impatient  to  hear  yon r  answer;  and 
I  hope  yon  will  not  refuse  to  Lro  with  Emily. 

*''  Yours  very  truly. 

"SAHAH    II.   El.LIS." 

The  postscript  contained  the  following:  — 

"  I  need  not  tell  tnv  darling  dertrude  how  much  I  have 
missed  her.  and  longed  to  have  her  with  me  again;  how  I 
have  thought  of  her  by  niuht  and  dav,  and  praved  (Jod  to 
strengthen  and  ill  her  for  main  trials  and  labours.  The 
k-ttcr  written  soon  after  Mr.  ('coper's  death  is  the  last 
that  has  reached  me.  and  1  do  not  know  whether  Mrs. 
Sullivan  is  still  living.  Write  to  me  at  once,  my  dear 
child,  if  you  cannot  come  to  us.  Father  will  tell  you  of 
our  plans,  and  ask  you  to  accompany  ns  to  Europe.  My 
heart  will  be  li^ht  if  1  can  take  my  dear  (ierty  with  me; 
I  trust  to  you.  my  love,  to  decide  aright.  You  have 
heard  of  father's  marriage,  li  i~  a  »reat  change  for  us 
all,  but  will.  1  trust,  result  in  happiness.  Mrs.  (iraliam 
has  two  niece-;,  who  are  with  us  at  the  h»iel.  They  are  to 
be  of  our  parly  to  ^o  abroad,  and  are,  1  understand,  very 
beautiful  irirls,  especially  Helia  Clinton,  whom  YOU  saw  in 
Boston  some  years  aj-<>,  Mrs.  Kliis  is  very  tired  of  writ- 
inir,  and  1  must  close  with  assuring  my  clearest  Gertrude 
of  the  devoted  ail'ec  ion  of 

'•  EMILY  (I  KAHAM.'' 

Tt  was  \\ith  <«reu1  curiosity  that  fieri  rude  unfolded  Mr. 
Graham's  epistle.  Site  though!  it  \\ould  he  awkward  for 
him  to  addn^s  her.  n  ;  wondered  much  whether  he  would 
maintain  hi.-;  authoritative  tone,  or  condescend  to  apolo- 
gise. II;, d  she  known  him  better,  she  would  have  been 
assured  that,  nothing  would  e\er  induce  him  to  do  the 
latter,  for  he  was  one  of  those,  persons  who  never  believe 
thems"!\  es  in  the  \\  r< 'iiu'. 

"Mi~s  (I i: irn;ri)i:  FI.IVT.-  -f  am  married,  and  intend 
to  ii'o  aiiroad  m  :  h  of  Apiil.  M  v  daughter  will 

uceoinuany  tia.  ani!   a         is.  i-ii;s  dreads   tin1  sea.  1  proposo 


TEE  LAMPLIGHTER.  1C7 

tfiat  yon  join  us  in  Xcw  York,  and  attend  the  party  as  a 
companion  to  Emily.  1  have  not  forgotten  the  ingrati- 
tude with  which  you  once  .slighted  a  similar  oiler  on  my 
part,  and  nothing  would  compel  me  to  give  yon  another 
opportunity  to  manifest  such  a  spirit,  but  a  desire  to  pro- 
mote the  happiness  of  Emily.,  and  a  sincere  wish  to  he  of 
service  to  a  young  person  who  has  been  in  my  family  so 
long  that  i  feel  a  friendly  interest  in  providing  for  her. 
By  complying  with  otir  wishes,  you  will  remove  the  recol- 
lection of  your  past  behaviour;  and,  if  you  choose  to  re- 
turn to  us,  i  shall  enable  yon  to  maintain  the  place  and 
appearance  of  a  lady.  As  we  sail  the  last  of  the  month,  it 
is  important  you  should  write  and  name  the  day.  1  will 
meet  you  at  the  boat.  Mrs.  Ellis  being  anxious  to  return 
to  Boston,  1  hope  yon  will  come  as  soon  as  possible.  I  en- 
close a  sum  of  money  to  cover  expenses.  If  you  have 
contracted  debts,  let  me  know  to  what  amount,  and  I  will 
see  that  all  is  paid  before  you  leave.  Trusting  you  are 
now  come  to  a  sense  of  your  duty,  I  subscribe  myself  your 
friend,  "  J.  11.  (i  KAIIAM." 

Gertrude  was  sitting  near  a  lamp,  Avhose  light  fell 
directly  upon  her  face,  which,  as  she  glanced  over  Mr. 
'Graham's  note,  Hushed  crimson  with  wounded  pride.  Dr. 
Jeremy  observed  her  colour  change,  and  during  the  few 
minutes  that  Mr.  and  Miss  Arnold  stayed  to  hear  the 
news,  he  gave  an  occasional  glance  of  defiance  at  tne 
letter,  and  as  soon  as  they  w^re  gone,  begged  to  be  made 
acquainted  with  its  contents 

"He  writes,'' said  Gertrude,  "to  invite  me  to  accom- 
pany them  to  Europe." 

"  Indeed !"  said  Dr.  Jeremy,  with  a  low  whistle;  "'and 
he  thinks  you'll  be  silly  enough  to  pack  up  and  start  oil  at 
a  minute's  notice!  " 

"'Why,  Gerty,"  said  Mrs.  Jeremy,  "'you'll  like  to  go, 
shan't  you,  dear  ?  It  will  be  delightful." 

"Delightful  —  nonsense!  Mrs.  Jrrrv/'''  exclaimed  the 
doctor;  "what  is  there  delight  fill,  1  want  to  know,  in 
travelling  about  with  an  arrogant  old  tyrant,  his  blind 
daughter,  upstart  dashv  wife,  and  her  t\vo  iine-ladv  nieces;' 
A  pretty  position  (Irrtrude  would  be  in—  a  tlu\e  to  the 
whims  of  all  that  company." 


IfiS  THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 

"  Why,   Dr.    Jerry,"  interrupted    his   wife,  "you   forget 

Emily." 

"Emilv— -  to  be  sure,  she's  an  tinsel,  and  never  would 
impose  upon  anybody,  least  of  all  her  own  pet:  but  she'll 
have  to  play  second  fiddle  herself,  and  I'm  mistaken  if  she 
doesn't  find  it  very  hard  to  defend  her  rights  and  main- 
tain a  comfortable  position  in  her  father's  enlarged  family 
circle." 

"'So  much  the  more  need,  then,"  said  Gertrude,  "  that 
someone  should  be  enlisted  in  her  interests,  to  ward  off 
the  approach  of  every  annoyance.'' 

"  |)oyou  mean,  then,  to  put  yourself  in  the  breach?" 
asked  the  doctor. 

"1  mean  to  accept  Mr.  (Iraham's  invitation,'' replied 
Gertrude,  "  and  join  Kmily  at  once;  but  I  trust  the  har- 
mony that  seems  to  subsist  between  her  and  her  new  con- 
nections will  continue  undisturbed,  so  that  1  shall  have  no 
cause  to  take  up  arms  on  Itcr  account,  and  on  nitj  otvil  I 
have  not  a  single  fear." 

"Then  you  think  you  shall  go?"  said  Mrs.  Jeremy. 

"1  do,"  .-aid  Gertrude:  '''nothing  but  mvd,;tvto  Mrs. 
Sullivan  and  her  father  led  me  to  think  of  leaving  Emily. 
That  dutv  is  at  an  end.  1  see  fruin  Mrs.  Ellis's  letters 
that  Kinilv  is  not  happy:  and  nothing  which  1  can  do  to 
make  her  so  must  be  neglected.  Only  think,  Mrs.  Jeremy, 
what  a  friend  she  has  been  to  me." 

"I  know  it, "said  Mrs.  Jeremy,  "and  1  dare  sav  you 
will  enjoy  the  journey,  in  spile  of  al]  the  scarecrows  the 
doctor  sets  up  to  frighten  you;  but  it  does  seem  a  sacri- 
fice for  von  to  leave  your  comforts  for  such  tin  uncertain 
sort  of  li  I'e." 

"  Sacrifice!  "  said  the  doctor:  "it's  the  greatest  sacrifice 
that  ever  1  heard  of!  It  is  not  HMTC|\  giving  up  a  good 
income  of  her  own  earnim;,  and  as  pleasant  a  home  as 
there  is  in  I  lost  on:  it  is  relinoni.-iiing  all  the  independence 
that  she  h.is  been  .-triving  after,  and  which  she  was  so 
anxious  to  maintain." 

"  No,  doctor/'  said  Gertrude,  warmlv;  ''nothing  that  F 
do  for  A'///////'*  sake  can  be  eaiied  a  sacrilice;  it  is  my 
gi'ea!  est  plea-ure.''' 

"  (ierty  always  find-  her  p'ea-iire  in  doing  what  is 
right."  remarked  Mrs.  Jeremy. 

•"The    thought/''  said   Gertrude.  "  that    our  dear   Emily 


THE  LAMPT.TCtTTTEn.  I  ft 9 

was  dependetit  upon  a  stranger  for  all  those  little  atten- 
tions that  are  oniv  acceptable  from  those  she  loves,  would 
make  me  miserable;  our  happiness  for  years  has  been  in 
eaeh  other;  and  when  one  has  suffered,  the  other  has 
suffered  also.  1  ->uust  go  to  her;  I  cannot  think  of  doing 
otherwise.'' 

"I  wish,''  muttered  Dr.  Jeremy,  "that  your  sacrifice, 
would  be  half  appreciated.  But  Graham,  I'll  venture  to 
say,  thinks  it  will  be  the  greatest  favour  to  take  you  back 
again.  Perhaps  he  addressed  you  as  a  beggar;  it,  wouldn't 
be  the  first  time  he's  done  such  a  thing.  1  wonder  what 
would  have  induced  poor  Philip  Amory  to  go  back.  ]Ias 
he  made  any  apology  in  his  letter  for  past  nnkindness  ?  " 

"]  do  not  think  he  considered  any  to  be  needed/' replied 
Gertrude. 

"Then  he  didn't  make  any  excuse  for  his  ungentle- 
manly  behaviour  ?  1  declare  it's  a  shame  you  should  be 
exposed  to  any  more  such  treatment;  but  I  always  did 
hear  that  women  were  self-forgetful  in  their  friendship, 
and  1  believe  it.  (Jertrude  makes  an  excellent  friend. 
Mrs.  Jerry,  we  must,  cultivate  her  regard;  and  sometime 
or  other,  perhaps,  make  a  loud  call  upon  her  services.'' 

"  And  if  ever  you  do,  sir,  I  shall  be  ready  to  respond  to 
it;  if  there  is  a  person  in  the  world  who  owes  a  debt  to 
society,  it  is  myself.  1  hear  the  world  called  cold,  selfish, 
and  unfeeling;  but  it  has  not  been  so  to  me.  1  should  be 
ungrateful  if  1  did  not  cherish  a  spirit  of  universal  love; 
how  much  more  so,  if  i  did  not  feel  bound,  heart  and 
hand,  to  those;  dear  friends  who  have  bestowed  upon  me 
such  affection  as  no  orphan  ever  found  before!  '' 

"  Gertrude,"  said  Mr.  Jeremy,  "  I  believe  that  vou  were 
right  in  leaving  Kmilv  when  you  did,  and  that  \ou  an; 
right  in  returning  to  her  now;  and,  if  your  being  such  a 
good  girl  as  you  are  is  at  all  due  to  her,  she  certainly  has 
a  great  claim  upon  you." 

'SShe  has  a  claim,  indeed.  Mrs.  Jeremy!  Tt  was  Kmily 
who  first  taught  me  the  difference  bet, ween  right  and 
wrong — 

"And  she  is  going  to  reap  the  benefit  of  that  knowledge 
in  you,"  said  the  doctor,  in  continuation  of  her  remark. 
"That's  fair!  Hut  if  you  are  ivsohed  to  take  this  Kuro- 
peau  tour,  vou  will  lie  busy  enough  with  vur  preparations. 
Do  you  think  Mr.  \V.  will  be  willing  to  give  you  up  '' 


nO  TUF.    LAMPLIGHTER. 

"  I  hope  so,''  said  Gertrude.  "  I  am  sorrv  to  he  obliged 
to  ask  it  of  him,  for  he  has  been  u-rv  indulgent  to  me, 
and  I  have  been  absent  from  school  two  weeks  out  of  the 
winter  already;  but  as  it  will  shortly  be  the1  summer  vaea- 
tion,  he  will,  perhaps,  be  able  to  supply  my  place." 

Mrs.  Jeremy  interested  herself  in  (iertrude's  arrange- 
ments, offered  an  attic-room  for  the  storage  of  her  furni- 
ture, gave  up  to  her  a  dressmaker  she  had  engaged  for  her- 
self, and  a  plan  was  laid  out,  by  which  Gertrude  could 
start  for  Xew  York  in  less  than  a  week. 

Mr.  W. ,011  being  applied  to,  relinquished  Gertrude, 
though  deeply  regretting  to  lose  so  valuable  an  assistant; 
and  after  a  few  days  occupied  in  [(reparation,  she  bade 
farewell  to  the  tearful  Fanny  Bruce,  the  bustling  doctor, 
and  his  kind-hearted  wife,  all  of  whom  accompanied  her 
to  the  railroad  station.  She  promised  to  write  to  the 
Jeremys;  and  they  agreed  to  forward  her  any  letters  that 
might  arrive  from  Willie. 

In  less  than  a  fortnight  from  the  time  of  her  departure, 
Mrs.  Ellis  returned  to  Boston,  and  brought  news  of  the 
safe  conclusion  of  Gertrude's  journey.  A  letter  received 
a  week  after  hy  Mrs.  .Jeremy  announced  that  they  should 
sail  in  a  few  days.  She  was,  therefore,  surprised  when  a. 
second  epistle  was  put  into  her  hands,  dated  the  day  suc- 
ceeding that  on  which  she  supposed  Mr.  <  Jraliam's  party 
to  have  left  the  country.  It  was  as  follows: — 

"XKW  YOI:K,  April  -.M)/7/. 

"Mr  DEAR  MRS.  JKKF.MY, — As  yesterday  was  the  day 
on  which  we  expected  to  sail  for  Ktirope.  you  will  ho 
astonished  to  hear  that  we  are  yet  in  .New  York,  and  still 
more  so  to  learn  that  the  foreign  tour  is  now  postponed. 
Only  two  days  since  Mr.  Graham  was  sei/ed  with  the 
gout,  and  the  attack  was  so  violent  as  to  threaten  his  life. 
Although  to-day  somewhat  relieved,  and  considered  by  his 
physician  out  of  immediate  clanger,  he  remains  a  great 
sufferer,  and  a  sea-voyage  is  pronounced  impracticable. 
His  great  anxiety  is  to  be  at  home;  ami,  as  soon  as  he  can 

bear  t  he  journey,  we  shall    hasten    to  the  house   in    I) . 

1  enclose  a  note  for  Mrs.  Fib's.  It  contains  various  direc- 
tions which  Kniily  is  desirous  she  should  receive;  and,  as 
we  did  not  know  how  to  address  her,  I  have  sent,  it  to  you, 
trusting  to  you.'1  ki!uinus>  to  sec  it  forwarded.  Mrs. 


THE  LAMPLTOItTEn.  171 

Graham  and  her  nieces,  who  had  been  anticipating  much 
pleasure  from  going  abroad,  are,  of  course,  greatly  disap- 
pointed. It  is,  particularly  trying  to  Miss  Clinton,  as  her 
father  has  been  absent  more  than  a  year,,  and  she  was 
hoping  to  meet  him  in  Paris. 

"  It  is  impossible  that  either  me  or  Emily  should  regret 
a  journey  of  which  we  felt,  only  dread,  and,  were  it  7iot 
for  Mr.  Graham's  illness  being  the  cause  of  its  postpone- 
ment, we  should  find  it  hard  not  to  realise  a  degree  of 
satisfaction  in  the  prospect  of  returning  to  the  dear  old 

place  in  1) ,  where  we  hope  to   be  established   in  the 

course  of  the  next  month.  J  say  vc\  for  neither  Mr. 
Graham  nor  Emily  will  hear  of  my  leaving  them  again. 

"  With  the  kindest  regards  to  yourself,  and  my  friend 
the  doctor, 

**  I  am,  yours  very  sincerely, 

"GEBTKUDE  FLINT/' 


JEALOUSY. 

MR.  GRAHAM'S  country-house  boasted  a  fine,  old  fash- 
ioned entry,  with  a  door  at  either  erd,  both  of  which 
usually  stood  open  during  the  warm  weather,  admitting  a 
current  of  air,  and  rendering  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
front  entrance  a  favourite  resort  of  the  family,  during  the 
early  hours  of  the  day,  when  the  sun  had  no  access  to  the 
spot.  Here,  on  a  pleasant  June  morning,  Jsabel  Clinton 
and  her  cousin,  Kitty  Kay,  had  made  themselves  com- 
fortable. 

Isabel  ban  drawn  a  large  arm-'Xuir  close  to  the  door-sill, 
ensconced  herself  in  it,  and  was  gazing  idlv  down  the  road, 
She  was  a.  beautiful  girl,  tall  and  well-formed,  with  a 
delicate  complexion,  clear  bine  eye.-,  and  rich,  light.  How- 
ing  curls.  The  same  lovely  child,  v/hotn  (lertrude  had 
ga/ed  upon  with  rapture,  as,  leaning  against  the  \vindo\vof 
her  father's  house,  she  once  watched  old  True  while  he  lit 
his  lamp,  had  ripened  into  an  equally  lovely  woman.  At 
HID  early  a*ie  denrived  o*'  her  mother,  and  left  for  some 


172  TIM!  LAVPLl 

years  to  the  care  of  servants,  she  soon  learned  to  appreciate, 
at  more  than  their  true  value,  her  out  ward  attractions  ;  and 
her  aunt,  under  whose,  tutelage  she  had  been  since  she  left 
school,  did  not  counteract  this  undue  self-admiration.  ATI 
appearance  of  conscious  superiority  which  distinguished 
her.  and  her  independent  air,  might  be  attributed  to  her 
conviction  that  Belle  (Mintou,  the  beauty  and  the  heiress, 
attired  in  a  blue  cashmere  morning-dress,  richly  em- 
broidered, and  open  in  front,  for  the  purpose  of  displaying 
an  equally  rich  ilounced  cambric  petticoat. 

On  a  low  step  at  her  feet  sat  Kitty  Kay,  a  complete  con- 
trast to  her  cousin  in  looks,  manners  and  many  points  of 
character.  She  was  a  sweet  little  creature,  lively,  playful, 
and  affectionate.  She  was  so  small  that  her  childish  man- 
ners became  her;  so  full  of  spirits  that  her  occasional  rude- 
ness claimed  pardon  on  that  score;  and  for  all  other  faults 
her  warm-heartedness  and  generous  enthusiasm  must  plead 
an  excuse  to  one  who  wished  to  love  her  as  she  wished  and 
expected  to  be  loved  by  everybody.  She  was  a  pretty  girl, 
always  bright  and  animated,  mirthful  and  happy;  fond  of 
her  cousin  Belle,  and  sometimes  influenced  by  her,  though 
often  enlisting  on  the  opposite  side  of  some  contested  ques- 
tion. Unlike  Belle,  she  was  seldom  well  dressed,  for  she 
was  very  careless.  On  the  present  occasion  her  dark  silk 
wrapper  was  half-concealed  by  a  crimson  ilannel  sack, 
which  she  held  tightly  around  her.  for  she  said  it  was  a 
chilly  morning,  and  she  was  half-frozen  to  death — she  cer- 
tainly would  go  am!  warm  herself  at  the  kitchen  tire,  if  she 
did  not,  fear  encountering  t  hat,  .-In'-il  nnjmi,  M  rs.  Kilis;  she 
was  sure  she  did  not  see,  if  they  must  sit  in  the  doorway, 
why  Belle  con  Id  n't  come  to  the  side-door,  where  the  sun 
-hone  beautifully.  "  O,  1  forgot,  though,"  added  she;' 
•'  he]-  complexion  ! 

"Complexion!  ''  said  Belle;  "I'm  no  more  afraid  o[ 
hurting  rny  complexion  than  you  arc;  1  never  freckle,  or 
tan  eit  her.'' 

"  But   voii  burn  all  up.  and  look  like  a  fright." 

"  Well,'  if  I  didn't,  1  shouldn't  go  there  to  sit;  I  like  to 
be  at,  the  front  of  the  house,  where  1  can  see  the  passing. 
1  wonder  who  those  people  are  coining  up  rhe  road." 

Kitty  stood  up.  and  looked  as  Beilc  pointed.  After 
observing  the  approaching  couple,  fora  minute  or  two  she 
exclaimed,  '•  Why,  thai'-  (iertrude  Flint!  1  wonder  where 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  173 

she's  been!     And  who  ran    that   be  with    her?     I  didn't 
know  there  was  a  beau  to  be  had  about  here." 

"  Beau  !"  said  Belie,  sneeringly. 

"  And  why  not  a  beau,  Cousin  Belle?  I'm  sure  he  looks 
like  one." 

"  I  wouldn't  give  much  f(  r  any  of  her  beaux  1 "  said 
Belle. 

'•Wouldn't  you?  "said  Kitty.  "Wait  mi  til  you  see  who 
;hey  are;  you  7iear-sighted  people  shouldn't  decide  in  such 
i  hurry.  1  can  tell  you  that  he  is  a  gentleman  you 
wouldn't  object  to  walking  with  yourself;  it's  Mr.  Bruce, 
•,lie  one  we  met  in  Xew  Orleans." 

"I  don't  believe  it  !"  exclaimed  Belle,  starting  up. 

"You  will  soon  have  a  chance  to  see  for  yourself;  for  he 
'.8  coming  home  with  her." 

"  He  is  !     What  can  he  be  walking  with  her  for?" 

"To  show  his  taste,  perhaps.  I  am  sure  he  could  not 
Ind  more  agreeable  company." 

"You  and  I  don't  agree  about  that."  replied  Belle.  "1 
3on't  see  anything  very  agreeable  about  her." 

"Because  you  are  determined  not  to,  Belle.  Everybody 
else  thinks  her  charming,  and  Mr.  Bruce  is  opening  tho 
gate  for  her  as  politely  as  if  she  were  a  queen.  1  like  him 
for  that." 

"Do  see,"  said  Belle:  "she's  got  on  that  white  cape- 
bonnet  of  hers!  and  that  checked  gingham  dress!  I  won- 
der what  Mr.  Bruce  thinks  of  her,  and  he  such  a  critic  in 
regard  to  ladies'  dress." 

Gertrude  and  her  companion  now  drew  near  to  thehouse. 
Tho  former  looked  up,  saw  the  young  ladies  in  the  door- 
way, and  smiled  pleasantly  at  Kitty,  who  was  making 
strange  grimaces  and  giving  insignificant  glances  over 
Belle's  shoulder;  but  Mr.  I>ruee  did  not  observe  either  of 
them;  and  they  heard  him  say.  as  he  handed  Gertrude  a 
small  parcel  he  had  been  carrying  for  her.  *'  I  believe  I 
won't  come  in;  it's  such  a  bore  to  have  to  talk  to  strangers. 
Do  you  work  in  the  garden,  mornings,  this  summer?'" 

"  Xo,"  replied  (iertrude.  "  there  is  nothing  left,  of  my 
garden  but  the  ntemorv  of  it." 

••  Why.  Miss  (iertrude  !"    sii.l 
these    ne\v-eo!!iers    haven't,    in t erf' 
oi  iservi  ng    the    d  i  reel  inn    of    ( iert  i 

OUII.     S:iVV     jjelh;    alU.1      K  i  U  V   .-  i  'J. 


174  THE  I. MTT LIGHTER. 

compelled  now  to  speak  with  them,  went  forward  to  shako 
hands,  trusting  to  his  remarks  a!><>ut  strangers  in  general, 
and  these  new-comers  in  particular,  not  having  been  over- 
heard. Although  overheard,  the  young  Indies  chose  to  take 
no  notice  of  that  winch  they  supposed  intended  for  un- 
loiown  individuals. 

They  were  mistaken,  however,  for  Mr.  Bruce  knew,  per- 
fectly well  that  the  nieces  of  the  present  Mrs.  (iraham 
were  the  same  girls  whom  he  met  at  the  south,  and  was 
indifferent  ahout  renewing  his  acquaintance.  But  his 
vanity  was  not  proof  against  the  evident  pleasure  they  both 
manifested  at  seeing  him  again:  and  he  soon  engaged  in  an 
animated  conversation  with  them,  while  Gertrude  entered 
the  house.  She  sought  Emily's  room,  and  was  giving  an 
account  of  her  morning's  expedition  to  the  village,  and  how 
she  had  accomplished  various  commissions  and  errands, 
when  Mrs.  Kllis  came,  and  said,  with  distressed  voice, 
"Hasn't  Gertrude  ;—  Oh,  there  you  are!  Do  tell  me 
what  Mrs.  Wilkins  sa!<':  about  the  strawberries  ?" 

"  I  engaged  three  quarts;  hasn't  she  sent  them  ? '' 

"Xo,  but  I'm  thankful  to  hear  they're  coming;  I  have 
been  so  plagued  about  the  dinner.'' 

She  now  came  in,  and  seating  herself,  exclaimed,  "  I  de- 
clare, Kmilv,  such  an  ironing  as  our  girls  have  got  to  to  do 
day!  You  never  saw  anything  like  it!  There's  no  end  tut  lie 
line  clothes  Mrs.  (iraham  and  her  nieces  put  into  our  wash. 
It's  a  shame!  Rich  as  they  are.  they  miirht  put  out  then- 
washing.  I've  been  helping,  inyxi.'lf,  as  much  as  I  could; 
but,  as  Mrs.  Prime  says,  one  can't  do  everything  at  once; 
and  I've  had  to  see  the  butcher,  make  puddiuirs  and  blanc- 
mange, and  been  worried  to  death  all  the  time,  because  1 
forgot  to  engage  those  strawberries.  So  Mrs.  \\ilkins 
hadn't  sent  her  fruit,  to  mark"!,  when  you  got  there ?" 

"No.  but  the  \va-  in  a  great  hurrv  getting  ready;  it 
Would  have  been  '_n>ne  m  a  very  short  time." 

"Well,  thai  was  lucky.  l' don't  know  what  I  should 
have  done  without,  fur  I've  no  time  ID  hunt  up  anything 
else  for  dessert.  I've  go  I  just  MS  mu  eh  a-  1  can  do  id]  dinner- 
time. Mrs.  (iraliam  never  \:<-\\\  \\<>\\  e  before,  and  don't 
knu\v  how  to  make  a!Io\\aiiec  for  aiivthing.  She  comes 
home  from  I '>«>st  -  >n.  <-\  \  < ••  t  •  iolitid  e\viyl  hiiig  in  apple-pie 
»rd(ir,  a i el  never  a  ks  ur  '•.:•-  U  h»  does  t  he  \vork.'' 

Mrs.    I'nnu'.  euilcd  out,  "  Mrs.  Kihs.  tlie  boy  has  brougl.it 


TIIK  LAMPLIGHTER.  175 

your  strawberries,  ami  the  stalks  an't  off;  lie  said  they 
hadn't  no  time." 

"  That's  too  bad/"  exclaimed  the  tired  housekeeper. 
"  Who's  going  to  take  the  stalks  off,  1  should  like  to  know;1 
Kate  is  busy,  and  I  can't  do  it/' 

"'  I  will,  Mrs.  Ellis;  let  rnc  do  it,'' said  Gertrude,  follow- 
ing Mrs.  Ellis,  who  was  now  half-way  downstairs. 

"  IS'o,  no!  don't  you,  Miss  Gertrude.'"  said  Mrs.  Prime; 
'''  they'll  only  stain  your  fingers  all  up." 

"No  matter  if  they  do;  my  hands  are  not  made  of 
white  kid.  They'll  bear  washing." 

Mrs.  Ellis  was  only  too  thankful  for  Gertrude's  help. 
Belle  and  Kitty  were  doing  th'-ir  best  to  entertain  Mr. 
Bruce,  who,  sitting  on  the  door-steps,  from  time  to  time 
cast  his  eyes  down  the  entry,  and  up  the  staircase,  in  hopes 
of  Gertrude's  reappearance;  and  despairing  of  it,  he  was 
about  to  depart,  when  his  sister  Fanny  came  running  up 
the  yard,  and  rushed  past  the  assembled  trio  for  the  house. 

Her  brother,  however,  stretched  out  his  arm.  caught  her, 
and  before  he  let  her  go  whispered  something  in  her  ear. 

"  Who  is  that  wild  Indian  ?''  asked  Kitty  I\ay,  as  Fanny 
ran  across  the  entry  and  disappeared. 

"A  sister  of  mine,''  answered  Ben,  in  a  nonchalant 
Qianner. 

"  Why!  is  she  ?  "  inquired  Kitty,  with  interest;  "I  have 
seen  her  here  several  times,  and  never  took  any  notice  of 
her.  1  didn't  know  she  was  your  sister.  What  a  pretty- 
girl  she  is." 

"  J)o  you  think  so  ?  "  said  Ben;  "  sorry  1  can't  agree  with 
you.  I  think  she's  a  fright." 

Fanny  now  reappeared,  and  stopping  a  moment  on  her 
way  upstairs  called  out,  without  any  ceremony,  "  She  says 
she  c:m't  come,  she's  busy.'' 

'''Who?"  asked  Kitty,  in  her  turn  catching  Fanny  and 
detaining  her. 

"Miss  Flint." 

Mr.  Bruce  coloured  sliirhtlv,  and  Belle  Clinton  observed 
it. 

"  What  is  she  d«in'.:  ?  "  inquired   Kitty. 

"  Picking  strawberries." 

*''  Where  are  you  going,  l'';;nnv?" 

"  Upstaii.s"  " 

"Do  they  let  you  go  all  over  i.he  house  F** 


176  Tim   LAM^LIUHTKR. 

"  Miss  Flint  said  I  might  u'o  up  and  bring  down  the 
birds." 

"What  birds?" 

"  Her  hw'ds.  I  am  going  to  hang  them  in  the  sun,  and 
they'll  sing  beautifully." 

She  went,  and  soon  returned  with  a  cage  containing  the 
little  monias  sent  by  Willie  from  Calcutta. 

''  There  Kitty."  cried  Belle;  "  those  are  the  birds  that 
wake  us  so  early  every  morning.'' 

"  Very  likely,'-'  said  Kitty;  " 'bring  thorn  here.  Good- 
ness! what  little  creatures  they  are! — do  look  at  them, 
31  r.  Bruce- -they  are  sweetly  pretty.'' 

"  Put  them  down  on  the  doorstep,  Fanny,''  said  Ben, 
"'so  that  we  can  see  them  better." 

"I'm  afraid  you'll  frighten  them,"  replied  Fanny;  "Miss 
Gertrude  doesn't  like  to  haye  them  frightened.'' 

'•  No,  we  won't."  said  Ben:  ''we're  disposed  to  be  very 
friendly  to  Miss  Gertrude's  birds.  Where  did  she  get 
them?  1  )o  you  kno\v.  Fanny?" 

"  Why,  they  me  Indian  birds;  Mr.  Sullivan  sent  them  to 
her." 

"  Who  is  he?" 

"  Oh.  lie  is  a  very  particular  friend;  she  has  letters  from 
him  every  lit t  ir  while." 

"What  Mr.  Sullivan  ?"  asked  Belle.  "  Do  you  know  his 
Christ  ian  name  ?  " 

"1  suppose  it's  William,"  said  Fanny.  "Miss  Emily 
always  calls  the  birds  little  Willies.'-'' 

"  Belle!  "  exclaimed  Kitty,  "  that's  your  William  Sulli- 
van." 

"  What  a  fa  vo ii  rite  man  he  seems  to  be!  "  said  Mr.  Bruce, 
iii  a  tone  of  sarcasm;  the  property  of  one  beautiful  lady 
and  the  particular  friend  of  another.'' 

"  1  don't  know  what  you  mean,  K  it  ty,"  said  Belle,  tartly. 
''Mr.  Sullivan  is  a  junior  partner  of  my  father's,  but  1 
have  not.  seen  him  fur  years." 

"  Kxcepi  in  your  dreams,  Belle,'' suggested  Kitty.  "\ou 
forget.'' 

"  I'"  you  dream  about  Mi1.  Sullivan  ?"  asked  Fam:v,  h'x- 
in;.r  h'-r  eves  on  1 1  I  c  as  sh"  spoke.  "  I  mean  to  go  and 
a-k  M  iss  G.-i'i  nide  i  \  sh<  does." 

"  !>•>,"  said    Kitt\  ;   "  I'll  LI'O  with    yon." 

They  n  n  aero-;.-,  i  he  en  li  y  1 1 1  t.o  t  nc  d  ,n  i  ng  room,  ;ind   put 


TITK  LAMPLIGHTER.  ' 

the  question  at  the  same  time.  Taken  by  surprise,  Cer- 
trude  neithei1  blushed  nor  looked  confused,  but  answered, 
quietly,  ''Yes,  sometimes;  but  \vhat,  do  YOU  kno\v  of  Mr. 
.Sullivan?" 

•'Oh,  nothing,"  answ  red  Kitty:  "'  only  *t>mc  others  do, 
and  we  are  inquiring  anuuid  to  see  how  many  there  are;" 
and  she  ran  back  in.  triumph  to  tell  Helle  .she  might  as  well 
be  frank,  like  (iertrude,  and  plead  guilty  to  tin-  weakness; 
it  looked  so  much  bet:<T  than  Mii.-hing  and  denying  it. 

But  it  would  not  do  u>  joke  with  Ue'le  aiiY  longer;  she 
was  offended,  and  did  not  conceal  the  fact.  Mr.  Bruce  felt 
,  anno\ed,  and  soon  left,  leavini;  the  t\vu  cousins  to  settle 
their  difficulty  as  best  they  could.  As  soon  as  he  had  gone, 
Belle  folded  up  her  work.  and  walked  upstairs  to  he,-  room 
with  great  dignit  v,  while  Kilty  stayed  behind  to  laugh  over 
the  matter,  and  improve  her  opport  unity  to  make  friends 
Avitli  Fanny  Brn<v:  I'm1  Kiitv  laboured  under  the  idea  that 
in  cultivating  the  acquaintance  of  the  sister  she  should 
advance  her  cause. 

She  therefore  called  Fanny  to  sit  Ije.-ide  her.  put  herarm 
round  her  waist,  and  commenced  talking  about  (iertrude, 
and  tin;  origin  and  extent  of  the  intimacy  which  seemed  to 
exist  between  her  and  the  liiuce  familv.  Fanny, who  was 
always  communicative, willingly  informed  her  of  the  cir- 
cumstances which  had  attached  her  so  strongly  to  a  friend 
who  was  some  years  her  senior. 

"And  your  brother,"'  said  Kitty,  '• "he  has  known  her 
some  time,  hasn't  he  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so. "answered  Fanny,  carelessly. 

•'Does  he  like  her?" 

"I  don't  know ;  I  should  think  he  would:  I  don't  see  how 
he  can  help  it.'' 

"'What  did  he  whisper  to  you  when  you  came  up  the 
steps?" 

"Oil,  he  bade  me  ask  Miss  (iertrude  if  she  wasn't  coming 
.back  to  see  him  again,  and  tell  her  he  was  tired  to  death 
waiting  for  her." 

Kitty  pouted  and  looked  vexed.  "Has  Mis.-  Flint  been 
in  the  habit  of  receiving  company  here,  and  been  treated 
like  an  equal  ?  " 

''  Of  course  she  has,"  answered  Fannv,  \\ilhspirit;  "  whv 
shouldn't  t-he  ?  She'.-  the  most  perfect  lady  f  ever  saw,  and 


178  Tin-:  LAMri.KUlTKR. 

mother  says  she  lui.s  beautiful  manners,  and  I  must  take 
pattern  by  her." 

"Oh,  Miss  (iertnule  .''called  she.  as  Gertrude,  who  had 
been  to  place,  the  strawberrries  in  the  refrigerator,  crossed 
the  back  part  of  the  long  entry,  '"Are you  ready  now?" 

"Yes,  Fanny,  1  shall  be  in  a  moment,''  answered  Ger- 
trude. 

"  Keady  for  what  ?  "  inquired   Kitty. 

"To  reai],"  said  Fanny.  "  She  is  going  to  read  thereat 
of  Hamlet  to  Miss  Kmilv;  she  read  the  first  throe  acts  yes- 
terdav.  and  Miss  Kmily  let  me  sit  in  her  room  and  hear  it. 
I  can't  understand  it  when  I  read  it.  myself,  but  when  1 
listen  to  Miss  Gertrude  it.  seems  quite  plain.  She's  a. 
splendid  reader,  and  I  came  in  to-day  on  purpose  to  hear  the 
play  finished.'5 

Kitty's  last  companion  having  deserted  her.  she  lay  on 
the  entry  sofa  and  fell  asleep.  She  was  wakened  by  her 
aunt,  who  returned  from  the  city  a  short  time  before  din- 
ner— "  I  say  Kitty  Kay,  wake  up  and  go  dress  for  dinner! 
I  saw  Belle  at  the  chamber  window  looking  like  a  beauty. 
I  wish  you'd  take  half  the  pains  she  does  to  improve  your 
appearance." 

Kitty  yawned,  and,  after  delaying  a  little,  followed  Mrs. 
Graham's  directions.  It  was  Kitty's  policy,  after  giving 
otTence  to  her  cousin  Belle,  to  appear  utterly  unconscious 
of  the  existence  of  any  unkind  feelings;  and,  though  Belle, 
often  manifested  some  degree  of  sulkiness,  she  was  too 
dependent,  upon  Kittv's  societvto  retain  that  disposition 
long.  They  were  soon  ehatting  together  as  usual. 

"  Belli-,"  said  Kitty,  as  she  stood  arranging  her  hair  at 
the  glass,  "do  you  remember  a  girl  we  used  to  meet  every 
morningon  our  way  to  school,  walking  with  a  paralytic  old 
man  ?'' 

"  Ye,." 

•'"'  Do  yon  know.  I  think  it,  was  Gertrude  T<ii;.L.  She  has 
altered  verv  mueh,  to  !»«•  sure;  but  the  features  are  still  the 
and  tin-re  certainly  never  was  but  one  such  pair  of 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  1  79 

"Why,  Belle,  why  didn't  you  sptak  of  it?'' 

"Lor,  Kitty,  I  don't  i'eei  so  'much  interest  in  her  us  you 
and  some  others  do.'' 

"  \Vhat  others?" 

"  Whv,  Mr.  Ifruce;  don't  you  see  he  is  hail  in  love  with 
her  ?  " 

"  Xo.  I  oon't  see  any  such  ihinir:  he  ha~  known  her  for 
a  lon^r  time  (Fanny  says  so),  and.  of  course,  he  fee's  a  re- 
spect  for  a  .nirl  that  the  Grahams  make  so  murh  account 
of.  But  I  don't  believe  tie'd  th.nk  o''.-iieha  thin^us  hein^ 
in  love  with  a  i >< !•.;;•  ^iii  like  her,  with  ho  family  connec- 
tions to  boast  o,'." 

"Perhaps  lie  didn't  fit  In  I'  of  lu-ii;^." 

"  Well,  he  H'ou/tlii'j  he.  Ni>'  isn't  riie  sort  of  person  tliat 
;vould  suit  him.  lie  has  been  :M  society  a  ^'reat  deal,  not 
only  at  home.  i>n:  in  P,-:ri.-;  and  he  would  want  a  wife  that 
•vas  very  lively  and  fond  of  eoaipany,  and  knew  how  to 
diake  a  show  wiih  money.'3 

'•  A  ^irl.  for  instan---e.  like  Kittv  l!av." 

"How  ridi'-nioi;-.  Px-iie!  just  as  if  peojile  couldivl  talk 
vithout  thiiikini;'  of  themselves  all  tiie  time  !  \\ "hat  do  I 
jure  about  Ben  Bruce?'3 

"I  don't  know  that,  you  care  anything  about  him;  but  I 
wouldn't  pull  all  the  hair  on:  of  mv  head  about,  it,  as  you 
are  doing.  There's  the  dinner-bell. '3 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

Tin-:  nis.UToiNTKi)  \voci I-:H. 

found  Gertrude  and  Kmilyseated  atawindow 
which  commanded  a  deli^'h'  I'M  i  western  view,  (iertnnh- 
had  been  des.ei'ibin^  to  ln-r  iiliiid  fr'end  the  vj irii'eoiis  pici  ure: 
presented  to  IKT  vi.-ion  bv  '.he  masses  of  lu'iiiiantl v-]iainteil 
cloud;  and  Kmily,  as  >hc  hsu-ned  to  tiic  pi'-win^  descrip- 
tion, experienced  a  |>arti.'ipat  ;oi:  in  (.'ei  t  I'ude  >  enjoyment. 
The  i^loi'v  had  now  t'adt-d  aw-iV,  save  a  l.-nu'  strip  of  i:'oid 
which  skirled  the  hon/''n;  a:,d  ih"  -i;::1.-  as  !  ra  \'  came  oi;t. 
one  hv  on  i\  sec  n  MM  to  i'")k  in  at  !  lie  r  ham  her  \\  induw  with 
a  smile  of  reco-rn.aon. 


180  T1IK  LA. Ml 'I., 

In    the  parlour   below  there  was  companv  from  the  eitv, 

and  the  sound  of  mirth  and  laughter  came  up  on  the  oven- 
ing  breeze;  so  mellowed,  howevr.  by  di.-taiiee,  that,  it  con- 
trasted with  the  peaee  ,,f  the  (p;iet  room,  without  disturb- 
ing it 

"Yon  had  belter  go  do\vn,  ( b-rtriide,"  said  Emily; 
"they  appear  to  be  enjoying  themselves,  and  I  love  to  hear 
your  laugh  mingling  with  the  r  st." 

"Oh,  no,  dear  Knnlv!"  sa'ii  ('ertrude;  '*  F  prefer  to  sta> 
with  you  :  thev  are  neariv  all  strangers  to  me.'' 

"As  you  please,  my  deal';  bn!  doii'l  let,  me  Kee])  you 
from  the  voting  people. " 

"  Y'ou  can  never  keep  me  with  von.  dear  Kmilv.  longer 
than  1  wish  to  stay:  there  i-  no  society  1  love  so  well." 
And  so  she  staved,  and  thev  resumed  their  pleasant  conver- 
sation. They  wore  interrupted  hv  Kalv.  whom  Mrs.  ( !  ra- 
liarn  sent  to  announce  a  new  visitor— Mrs.  P>ruee  who  had 
inquired  for  Kmilv. 

"  I  suppose  I  must  go  down,"  said  Emilv  ;  "you'll  come 
too,  Gertrude  ?" 

"  No,  1  bi'iieve  not.  unless  she  asked  for  me.  Did  she, 
Katy  r 

"Mrs.  Graham  was  only  aft  her  mintioning  Miss  Emily," 
said  Katy. 

"Then  I  will  stay  here,''  said  Cert  rude;  ami  Emily, 
finding  it  to  be  her  wish,  went  without,  her.  There  was 
soon  another  loud  ring  at  t  he  door-bell,  [t  seemed  to  be  a 
reception  evening,  and  this  time  (lertrnde's  presence  was 
particularly  requested,  to  see  !';.  and  Mrs.  .Icremv. 

When  she  entered  the  ja  i«»ar  a  irreat  number  of  guests 
were  assembled,  and  everv  sea!  occupied.  As  she  came  in 
alone,  and  unexpected  by  most  of  the  company,  a;i  eyes 
Were  turned  upon  her.  * 'o'  t  ra  v  to  the  expectation  oi 
Jj-'lle  and  Kittv,  who  were  \\  \  her  with  "uriosity,  she 

manifesteil  no  embarrassment,  but  glancing  leisurelv  at  the 
various  groups,  nut  il  she  recognised  Mrs.  Jeremv.  crossed 
the  larii'e  saloon  wir  h  chara  'teri  I  i  •  ra  -e.  and  as  m  ueh  ease 
a-  if  she  wei'e  the  on,  \  per-o;;  -,,,  u;,  A  ;  I  er  give;  m-j  !  hat 
lad  v  '.vif  h  her  •••riiia'it  v .  I  n  n;ed  to  speak  t '  i  t  he 

do'-tor ;  but  he  was  '  .  i  '  \  '•,•••..  n  '  ,••  \undi  >w- 

tji-af ,  and  u  as  half-'1  .  •  ..  !•  '  .  1 1  eurta  ,n.  1  Vf*  ,t  e  he 
came  Mr-.  Hrin'e  nodu'i  an:  \  from  the  oppo.-ite  eor- 

uer,  and  (.iei'ini'!-:  went  LO  shake  hands  with  her;  Mr. 


THE  LAM'ri.ltHrTEH.  IS! 


Bruce,  wlio  formed  one  in  ;i  gay  circle  of  young  ladies  and 
gentlemen  collected  in  that  part  of  the  room,  and  who  had 
been  observing  <  lertrmie's  mot  ions  so  at  tent  ively  as  to  make 
no  reply  to  a  question  put  to  him  l>\  Kitiv  Hay,  now  offered 
his  chair,  saying,  "  Mis.--  Gertrude,  do  take  this  seat." 

'''Thank  yon,"  said  Gertrude.  "  but  1  see  my  friend  the 
doctor  on  the  other  side  of  the  room;  he  expects  mo  to 
speak  to  him,  so  don't  let  me  disturb  you/" 

Dr.  Jeremy  now  came  half-wav  acro-s  the  room  to  meet 
her,  and  led  her  into  the  reces<  formed  by  the  window,  and 
placed  her  in  his  own  seat  next  to  Fanny  Bruce.  To  the 
astonishment  of  all  who  knew  him,  lien  Bruce  brought  his 
own  chair,  and  placed  it  !'or  the  doctor  opposite  to  Ger- 
trude. 80  much  respect  for  age  was  not  anticipated  from 
the  man  of  fashion. 

"  Is  that  u  daughter  of  Mr.  Graham's:'"  asked  a,  young 
lady  of  .Belle  Clinton,  who  sat  next  her. 

'•'  Xo,  indeed,"  replied  Belie;  "  she  is  a  person  to  whom 
Miss  Graham  gave  an  education,  and  now  she  lives  here  to 
read  to  her  and  be  a  sort  of  companion;  h'-r  name  is  Flint." 

""What  did  yon  .-ay  that  young  ladv's  name  was?"  asked 
a  dashing  lieutenant,  addressing  Isabel. 

••Miss  Flint." 

"Flint,  ah!  .-he's  a  genteel-looking  girl.  How  peculiarly 
she  dresses  her  hair!" 

"Very  becoming,  however,  to  that,  stvle  of  face.''  re- 
marked the  young  lady  who  had  iirst  spoken.  "'  Don't  you 
think  so  ?" 

'•  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  li'-utenant  :  "'something 
becomes  her;  she  makes  a  line  appearance.  Bruce,"  said 
he,  as  Mi1.  Bruce  returned,  afler  his  unusual  effort  of  polite- 
ness, "  who  is  that  Miss  Flint  'J.  —  1  have  been  here  two  or 
three  times,  and  1  never  saw  her  before." 

"Very  ILkelv."  said  Mr.  Bruce;  "she  won't  always  show 
herself.  Isn't  she  a  line-looking  girl  ?" 

"I  haven't  made  up  my  mind  vet;  she's  got  a  splendid 
figure  ;  but  who  is  she  Y' 

"She's  a  sort  of  adopted  daughter  of  Mr.  Graham's,  I 
believe,  n  pi'nd'n/i'fi  of  Miss  Fmi'v's." 

"Ah,  po6r  thing  !      An    orphan  ':" 

"  Yes,  1  <uppose  so,"  said   Ben,  bitintr  his  lips. 

"  Pity  !"  .said  the  young    man;   "poor   tiling!    but   she's 


IS2  THE  KAW.fJVIITETl. 

good-look  ing,  particularly  when  she  smiles;  there  is  som6« 
thing  VI.T\  attractive  about  hi'!1  face.'' 

There  certainly  was  tu  Ben.  for,  a  moment  after,  Kitty 
Rny  missed  him  iVom  me  room,  ;iml  immediately  espied 
him,  standing  on  'h«'  pia/xa.  and  leanir.'j;  through  the  open 
window  to  talk  uitii  (<<  rtrude,  Dr.  Jeremv,  and  Fanny. 
The  comersal.ion  soon  became  verv  lively;  there  seemed  to 
be  a  war  of  wits  going  on  ;  the  doctor,  especially,  laughed 
very  loud,  and  (iertriido  and  Funny  often  joined  in  the 
rneri'y  peal.  Kitty  endured  it  as  long  as  she  could,  and 
then  ran.  joined  the  |  arty,  and  heard  what  they  were  hav- 
ing so  much  fun  about. 

But  it  was  ail  an  enigma  to  Kitty.  Dr.  Jeremy  was  talk- 
ing with  Mr.  Bruce  concerning  something  which  had  hap- 
pened many  years  ago;  there  was  a  great  deal  about  a  fold's 
cap.  with  a  lon^  tassel,  and  taking  afiernoon  naps  in  the 
grass  ;  t!.e  doctor  was  making  queer  allusions  to  some  old 
pear-tree,  and  trap-  set  for  thieyes.  and  kept  reminding 
(lertrude  of  circumstances  which  attended  their  lirst  uc- 
quaintance  with  each  other  and  with  Mr.  ]>ruce. 

Kitty  was  beginnini:  to  f«'el  thai  she  had  placed  herself 
in  the  position  of  an  intruder,  and  began  to  feel  embar- 
rassed, when  (iertrude  touched  her  arm,  and  making  room 
for  her  next  herself,  motioned  to  her  to  sit  down,  saving,  as 
she  did  so,  "  Dr.  .Jeremy  is  >pe;iking  of  the  time  when  In; 
(or  he  and  f,  ;is  he  chooses  to  have,  it)  went  fruit -stealing  in 
Airs.  Bruce's  orchard,  and  were  unexpectedly  caught  by  Mr. 
Bruce." 

''You  mean,  my  dear/'  interrupted  the  doctor,  "that 
Mr.  Bruce  was  discovered  by  us.  \\~hv,  it's  my  opinion  he 
•\yould  have  slept  unid  this  time  if  I  hadn't  given  him  such 
a  t  horou^'h  waking  up.'' 

*  •'  Mv  tirst  acquaintauce  with  you  was  certainly  the 
'greatest  awakening  of  mv  life."  said  Jv-n,  spcuking  as  if  to 
the  doctor,  but  looking  meaningly  at  fJertrude  :  "that  was 
not  the  only  nap  it  cost  me.  JIow  sorry  I  am,  Miss  (teiv 
trude,  that  you've  given  up  working  in  the  garden,  as  you 
used  to  !  I'ray,  how  doc,-:  j?  happen  ?" 

"Mrs.  (iraham  ha-  had  it  remodelled,"  replied  (lerti  tide, 
'' and  tlKMiew  gardener  neither   needs   nor   desires   my  sej-- 
vice,-.      He  has  his  own    plan-,  and   it  is  not  well  to   inter- 
fere witii  the  professor  of  an  art  ;  I  should  be  sure  to  uc 
mischief." 


77/7-7  LAM ri.lf UTTER.  1x3 

"I  doubt  whether  his  swoons  compares  with  yours," 
said  lien.  "  1  do  not  see  anything  like  the  same  quantity 
of  flowers  in  tlit-  room  that  //on  used  to  have." 

''I  think,"  said  Gertrude,  ''that  he  is  not  as  fond  of 
cutting  them  as  I  was.  I  did  not  care  so  much  for  the 
appearance  of  the  garden  as  for  having  plenty  of  flowers 
in  the  house  ;  but  with  him  it  is  the  reverse.'' 

Kitty  made  remark  to  Mr.  Bruce  on  the  subject  of 
gardening,  and  (iertrude,  turning  to  Dr.  Jeremy,  con- 
tinued in  conversation  with  him,  until  Mrs.  Jeremy  rose 
to  go,  when  she  said,  "  Or.  Jerrv,  have  you  u'iven  (iertrude 
her  letter?'' 

''  Goodness  me  !''  exclaimed  the  doctor.  Then  feeling 
in  his  pocket,  he  drew  forth  an  evidently  foreign  docu- 
ment, the  envelope  litenillv  covered  with  various  coloured 
post-office  stamps.  See  here,  (ierty,  genuine  Calcutta;  no 
mistake!" 

Gertrude  took  the  letter,  and,  as  she  ihanked  the  doctor, 
her  countenance  expressed  pleasure  at  receiving  it  :  a 
pleasure,  however,  somewhat  tempered  by  sadness,  for  she 
had  heard  from  Willie  but  once  since  he  learned  the  news 
of  his  mother's  death,  and  that,  letter  had  been  such  an 
outpouring  of  his  vehement  grief,  that  the  sight  of  his 
handwriting  almost  pained  her,  as  she  anticipated  some- 
thing like  a  repetition  of  the  outburst. 

Mr.  Bruce,  who  kept  his  eyes  upon  her.  and  expected 
to  see  her  change  colour,  and  look  disconcerted,  on  the 
letter  being  handed  to  her  in  the  presence  of  so  many  wit- 
nesses, was  reassured  by  the  composure  with  which  she  took 
it,  and  held  it  openly  in  her  hand,  while  she  bade  the  doc- 
tor and  his  wife  good  evening.  She  followed  them  to  the 
door,  and  was  retreat  ing  to  her  o\\  n  apartment,  when  she 
was  met  by  Mr.  Bruce,  who  had  noticed  the  movement, 
and  now  entered  from  the  piazza  in  time  to  arre<t  her  steps, 
and  ask  if  her  letter  was  of  such  importance  that  she  must 
deny  the  company  the  pleasure  of  her  society  in  or.ler  to 
study  its  contents. 

4f  It  is  from  a  friend  of  whose  welfare  I  am  anxious  to 
hear,''  said  Gertrude,  gravely.  "  I'lcase  excuse  me  to  your 
mother,  if  she  inquires  for  me:  and.  as  the  rest  of  the 
guests  aro  strangers,  1  shall  not  be  missed  by  them.'' 

"Oh,  Miss  Gertrude."  t^'ti  Mr.   Bruce,,  "  it's  no  use  com- 


1S4  THK  LAMPLIGHTER. 

ing  hero  to  POO  you,  yon  are  so  freouently  invisible.     What 
part  of  tho  day  is  the  most  likely  to  find  you  disengaged?" 

"  Hardly  any  part. ''said  ( i-,>rt  rude.  ''  J  am  always  a  busy 
character;  but  good  night,  Mr.  Bruce — don't  let  me  detain 
you  from  the  other  voting  ladies;"  and  Gertrude  ran  up- 
stair.-, leaving  Mr.  Bruce  uncertain  whether  to  be  Vexed 
with  himself  or  her. 

Contrary  to  (iertv's  expectations,  "William  Sullivan's:  let- 
ter proved  verv  soothing  to  the  grief  she  had  felt  on  his  ac- 
count. His  spirit  had  boon  so  crushed  by  the  death  of  his 
grandfather,  and  by  his  second  and  still  greater  loss,  that 
bis  first  communication  to  Gertrude-  had  alarmed  her,  from 
its  despairing  tone;  she  had  feared  lest  his  Christian  forti- 
tude would  give  way  to  the  force  of  his  double  affliction. 
Site  was  much  relieved  to  iindthai  IK;  wrote  in  a  calmer 
strain;  that  he  had  taken  to  heart  his  mother's  last  entreaty 
and  praver  for  a  submissive  disposition  on  his  part;  cs.ul 
that,  although  deeply  aillieted,  he  was  sehooling  himself  to 
patience  and  resignat  ion. 

The  three  closelv-writ  ten  pages  were  devoted  to  fervent 
expressions  of  gratitude  to  dertrude  for  the  kindness  and 
love  which  had  comforted  the  list  davs  of  his  much-re- 
gretted friends.  He  prayed  that  Heaven  would  bless  her, 
and  reward  her  self-denying  efforts,  and  closed  with  saving, 
"  Von  are  all  that  is  left  tome,  (ieitrtide.  If  I  loved  you 
before,  my  heart  is  now  bound  to  you  by  ties  stronger  than 
those  of  earth:  m  v  hopes,  my  labours,  my  prayers,  are  all  for 
Vou.  (iod  grant  that  we  mav  some  dav  nicot  again  !" 

Koran  hour  (iertriMO  sat  lost  in  meditation;  her  thoughts 
went  back  to  her  home  at  I  tide  True's,  and  the  days  when 

manv  happv  hours  in  close  com- 
long separation  so  soot- 
to  ensue.  Siie  was  starte  at  ast  from  her  reverie  b  tin 
voices  o 
leave. 

M  rs.  Bruce  and    her  son 
riages    had    lefi   wit  h  t  he  gin 
were  ma  king  t  heir  farewells  o 
trude's  wi  ndow.  she  heard  M  r 
M  !'.   Bruce,  we  d  itie  at    t  wo  ; 
to  See    Voil    also." 

Mr.  Br'ict-'s  at  tent  ions  to  her  had  !  hat  dav  been  marked; 
and  the  profession.-,  of  admiration  he  had  whispered  in  her 


M iss  Kannv,  we  shall  hope 


T1JK  LAMPLTtniTER.  1S~» 

car  had  been  still  more  so.  Both  these  attentions  and  this 
admiration  were  unsought  and  undesired;  neither  were  they 
flattering  to  the  high-minded  girl,  who  was  superior  to  co- 
quetry, and  whose  self-respect  was  wounded  by  the  a.-sure<l 
manner  in  which  Mr.  Bruce  made  his  advances.  As  a  youth 
of  seventeen,  she  had  marked  him  as  indolent  and  ill-bred. 
Her  sense  of  justice,  however,  would  have  obliterated  this 
recollection,  had  his  character  and  manner  been  changed  on 
the  renewal  of  their  acquaintance,  some  years  after.  But 
this  was  not  the  case,  for  outward  polish  could  not  cloud 
Gertrude's  discernment;  and  she  perceived  that  his  old 
characteristics  remained,  rendered  more  glaring  bv  ill-con- 
cealed vanity.  As  a  boy,  he  had  stared  at  Gertrude  from 
impudence,  and  inquired  her  name  out  of  idle  curiositv:  as 
a  youthful  coxcomb  he  had  resolved  to  flirt  with  her,  be- 
cause his  time  hung  heavy  on  his  hands.  But,  to  his  sur- 
prise, he  found  the  country  girl  quite  ii..-ensible  to  the  flat- 
tery and  notice  which  many  a  city  belle  had  coveted;  and 
that  when  he  tried  raillery,  he  usually  proved  the  discon- 
certed party. 

It  was  something  new  to  Mr.  Bruce  to  find  any  lady  thus 
indifferent  to  his  merits;  and  proved  such  an  awakening  to 
his  ambition,  that  he  resolved  to  recommend  himself  to 
Gertrude,  and  consequently  improved  every  opportunity  of 
gaining  admittance  to  her  society.  But  while  labouring  to 
inspire  her  with  a  due  appreciation  of  himself,  he  fell  into 
his  own  snare  ;  for  though  he  failed  in  awakening  Ger- 
trude's interest,  he  could  not  be  equally  insensible  to  her 
attractions.  Even  the  dull  intellect  of  Ben  [-Si-use  Mas  cap- 
able of  measuring  her  vast  superiority  to  most  girls  of  her 
age;  and  her  vivacious  originality  was  a  contrast  to  the  in 
sipidity  of  fashionable  life,  which  at  length  completely 
charmed  him. 

His  earnestness  and  perseverance  began  to  annoy  the  ob- 
ject of  his  admiration  before  he  left  Mr.  Graham's  in  the 
autumn;  and  she  was  glad  soon  after  to  hear  that  he  had 
accompanied  his  mother  to  Washington,  as  it  insured  her 
against  meeting  him  again  for  months  to  come. 

Mr.  Bruce  regretted  lo-ing  sight  of  Gertrude,  but  amid, 
the  gaietv  of  southern  cities  wasted  his  time  with  tolerable 
satisfaction.  lie  was  reminded  of  her  again  on  meeting 
the  Graham  part  vat  New  Orleans,  and  it  is  some  credit  to 
his  understanding  to  say.  that  in  the  comparison  which  Jiu 


ISC  T1IK  LA:\fl>T.jr,HTKU. 

constantly   drew  between   her   ;iinl   tin.1  vain   daughters  of 
fashion,  she  stood   higher  than  ever  in  his  estimation,      lie 

did  not.  hesitate  to  tell  her  so  on  the  morning  already  nien- 
ti(»ned,  \vhen,  with  evident  satisfaction,  he  had  recogni/ed 
and  joined  her;  and,  the  increased  devotion  of  his  words  and 
manner,  which  now  took  a  tone  of  truth  in  which  thev  had 
;el'oiv  been  wanting,  alarmed  d'ertrude.  and  led  to  a  seri- 
MIS  resolve  to  avoid  him  on  all  possible  occasions. 

On  the  day  succeeding  the  one  of  which  we  have  been 
speaking,  Mr.  draham  returned  from  the  citv  about  noon, 
and  joined  the  young  ladies  in  the  entry,  unfolded  his  news- 
paper, and,  handing  it  to  Kitty,  a-ked  her  to  read  the  nous,. 
"  What  shall  1  read?''  said  Kitty,  taking  the  paper  rather 
unwillingly. 

'"  The  leading  article,  if  yon  please." 

Kitty  turned  the  paper  inside  and  out,  looked  liastilv  up 
and  down  its  pages,  and  then  declared  her  inability  to  lind 
it.  Mr.  (iraham  was  astonished,  and  pointed  in  silence  to 
the  paragraph.  She  began,  but  had  scarcely  read  a  sen- 
tence before  Mr.  d'raham  stopped  her,  saving,  "  Don't  read 
so  fast-  1  can't  hear  a  single  word  !  "  She  now  drawled  so 
intolerably  that  he  interrupted  her  again,  and  bade  her 
give  the  paper  to  her  cousin. 

Belle  took  it  from  the  pouting  Kitty,  and  finis 
article — not,  however,  without  being  once  or  twi 
pel  led  to  go  back  and  read  more  intelligibly. 

"  Do  vou  wish  to  hear  anything  more.  s;r  ?  "  aski 


list   by   the  steamer  ?"     Belle,  more    fortunate  than  Kit  ty, 

found  the  jiiace.  and  commenced.    "At  Canton.  April  ;>(>th, 
ship  Ann  Maria,  K'av.  </-i-*-c-'/.'     \Viiat  does  that  mean;''' 
"  Discharging,  of  course  ;  go  on.'' 

loth/"    spelt    Belle,    looking    dreadfully 


paper  out  of  her  hands;  "  nol 
Where's  dertrude:'  Where' 
only  '/\':\  I  ever  saw  that  did 
call  her.  Kin  v  ?  ' 

Kittv  went,  though  relnetantlv 
told  her  for  what  she  was  wan 
tonished;  since  the  day  when  she 
jng  his  iiouse,  Mr.  (.Indium  had  never  asked  her  to  read 


THE  LAVPr.nUITEn.  Is7 

to  him:  but,  obedient  to  the  i-ummons,,  she  presented 
herse!  f,  and,  taking  tiie  seat  which  Belie  had  vacated  near 
the  door,  commenced  with  the  .-hip-news,  and,  without 
asking  questions,  turned  to  various  items  of  intelligence, 
taking  them  in  the  order  which  she  knew  Mr.  Graham  pre- 
ferred. 

The  old  gentleman,  leaning  back  in  his  easy-chair,  and 
resting  his  gouty  foot  upon  an  ottoman  opposite  to  him, 
looked  amazingly  satisfied;  and  when  Hello  and  Kitty  had 
gone  oil'  to  their  room,  he  remarked,  ''This  seems  like  old 
times,  doesn't  it,  Gertrude  !J  "  He  closed  his  eyes,  and 
Gertrude  was  soon  aware  that  he  had  fallen  asleep. 
Seeing  that,  as  he  sat,  it  would  lie  impossible  for  her  to  pass 
without  wakim;  linn,  she  laid  down  the  paper,  and  was 
preparing  to  draw  some  work  from  her  pocket,  when  she 
observed  a  shadow  in  the  doorway,  and,,  looking  up.  saw 
the  Mi'tson  whom  she  had  yesterday  re-olved  to  avoid. 

Mr.  I'ruco  was  staring  in  her  i'a'-i^  with  an  indolent 
air  of  east.'  and  confidence,  which  she  alwavs  found  very 
offensive.  He  had  in  one  hand  a  Imiieh  of  roses,  which  he 
held  up  to  her  admiring  gaxe.  "  Very  beautiful  !  "  said 
Gertrude,  as  she  glanced  at  the  little  branches,  coyered 
with  a  luxurious  growth  of  moss  rose-buds,  both  pink  and 
white. 

She  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  fearing  to  awaken  Mr.  Gra- 
ham. Mr.  Bruce,  in  a  whisper,  remarked,  as  he  dangled 
them  above  her  head,"  1  thought  they  were  pretty  when  1 
gathered  them,  but  they  suffer  from  the  comparison.  Miss 
Gertrude/''  and  he  gave  a  meaning  look  at  the  roses  in  her 
cheeks. 

Gertrude,  to  whom  this  was  a  stale  compliment,  coming 
from  Mr.  Bruce,  took  no  notice  of  it,  but.  rising,  advanced 
to  make  her  exit  by  the  front-door,  saying,  "  1  will  go 
across  the  piazza,  Mr.  Bruce,  and  send  the  ladies  word  that 
you  are  here." 

"  O,  pray,  don't  !  "  said  he,  putting  himself  in  her  way. 
"It  would"  be  cruel:  I  haven't  the  slightest  wish  to  see 
them.'"  He  so  effectually  prevented  her,  that  she  was  un- 
willingly compelled  to  retreat  from  the  door  and  resume 
her  seat.  As  she  did  so.  she  took  her  work  from  her 
pocket,  her  countenance  in  the  meantime  expressing  vexa- 
tion. 

Mr.  Bruce  looked  triumphant. 


l^S  THE  LAMPLWUTEU. 

"Miss  Gertrude,"  said  lie.  "will  you  oblige  me  by 
wearing  these  flowers  in  vour  hair  to-day?'1' 

"I  do  nut  \ve;ir  gay  flowers,"  replied  Gertrude,  without 
lifting  her  eyes,  from  the  piece  ul'  muslin  on  which  she 
was  employed. 

Supposing   this  to  be  on  account  of  her  mourning   (for 
she  wore  a  plain  black    dress),  he   selected    the  white   buds/ 
from  the  rest,  and,   presenting    them    to    her,  begged   that,' 
for  his  sake,  she  would  display  them  in    contrast    with   her 
dark  silken  braids. 

"I  am  much  obliged  to  you,"  said  Gertrude  ;  "I  never 
saw  more  beautiful  roses,  but  I  am  not  accustomed  to  bo 
so  much  dressed,  and.  believe  me,  you  must  excuse  me." 

"Then  you  won't  take  mv  flowers?" 

"'  Certainly  1  will,  with  pleasure,"  said  she,  rising,  ''if 
you  will  let  me  get  ;i  glass  of  water,  and  place  them  in  the 
parlour,  where  we  can  all  enjoy  them." 

''  I  did  not  cut  my  flowers,  ami  bring  them  lien1  for  the, 
benefit  of  the  whole  household,"  said  Ben,  in  a  half-of- 
fended tone.  "If  you  won't  wear  them,  Miss  Gertrude, 
J  will  offer  them  to  somebody  that  will.'' 

This,  he  thought,  would  alarm  her,  for  his  vanity  was 
such  that  he  attributed  her  behaviour  wholly  to  coquetry. 

"'  I  will  punish  her,"  thought  lie,  as  he  tied  the  roses  to- 
gether again,  and  arranged  them  for  presentation  to  Kitty, 
who  he  knew  would  be  flattered  to  receive  them. 

"Where's  Fanny  to-day."  asked  (lertrude,  anxious  to 
divert  t  he  conversation. 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  P>en,  which  implied  that  he 
had  no  idea  of  talking  about  Fanny. 

••  How  attentive  you  ;uv  to  your  work!"  said  he,  at  last  : 
"your  eyes  seemed  nailed  toil.  1  wish  I  were  as  attractive 
as  t  hat  piece  of  muslin  !  " 

"  I  wish  you  were  as  inoffensive,"  thought  dertrnde. 

"  I  do  not  think  you  take  much  pains  to  entertain  me/' 
add"d  he,  "  when  I've  eome  here  on  purpose  to  see  you." 

"  I  thought  you  came  by  Mrs.  (Iraham's  invitation,"  said 
(left  rude. 

••  Ami  didn't  I  have  to  court  Kittv  fur  an  hour  in  order 
to  ifet  it  ?  " 

"If  you  obtained  it  by  artifice,'' said  Gertrude,  smiling, 
"  you  do  not  deserve  to  be  entertained.'' 


THK  LAWrUOIfTER.  ISO 

"It  is  much  easier  to  please  Kittv  than  you,"  remarked 
Ben. 

''  Kitty  is  very  amiable  and    pleasant."  said  (icrtrude. 

"Yes;  l»iu  J'd  give  more  for  one  smile  from  you 
than- 

(iertrude  now  interrupted  him  \viih,  "  Ah  !  here  is  an 
old  friend  coming  to  see  us  ;  please1  lei  me  pass,  Mr. 
Bruce?  " 

The  gate  :it.  the  end  of  the  yard  svvunnf  to  as  she  spoke, 
and  Hen,  looking;  in  that  direction,  saw  the  person  whom 
Gertrude  seemed  desirous  to  go  and  meet, 

"  Don't  lie  i  n  such  a  hurrv  to  leave  me  !  "  said  Ben  ;"  that 
little  crone,  \vliose  coming  seems  to  give  von  so  much  sat- 
isfaction, can't  get  here  this  half  hour,  at  the  rate  she  is 
travelling.'' 

"She  is  an  old  friend,'' replied  Gertrude.  "1  must  1:0 
and  welcome  her."  Her  countenance  expressed  so  mm-h 
earnestness  that  Mr.  Bruce  was  ashamed  to  persist  in  his 
incivility,  ami.  rising,  permitted  her  to  pa.-s.  Miss  Pattv- 
Pace  was  overjoyed  at  seeing  Gertrude,  and  commenced 
waving,  iii  a  theatrical  manner,  a  huge  feather  fan.  her  fa- 
vourite mode  of  salutation.  As  she  drew  near.  Miss  Patty 
took  her  by  both  hands,  and  stood  talking  with  her  some 
minutes.  They  entered  the  house  at  the  side  door,  and 
Ben,  thus  disappointed  <>f  Gertrude's  return,  sallied  into 
the  garden  in  hopes  to  attract  the  notice  of  Kittv. 

Ben  Bruce  had  such  confidence  in  the  power  of  wealth 
and  a  high  station  in  fashionable  life  that  it  never  occurred 
to  him  to  doubt  that  Gertrude  would  gladlv  accept  hi-  hand 
and  fortune  if  they  were  placed  at  her  disposal.  .Many  a 
worldly-wise  mother  had  sought  his  acquaintance:  many  a 
voting  ladv  of  propertvand  rank  had  received  his  at  tent  ion 
with  favour,  and  believing,  a-'  he  did.  that  lie  had  money 
enough  to  purchase.  lie  determined  to  win  Gertrude"-: 
good  opinion  and  affection:  and  although  more  interested 
in  her  than  he  was  aware  of  him.-elf,  he  at  present  made 
that  his  ultimate  object.  He  frit  conscimis  that  a-  yt  she 
Ittld  iriven  no  evidence  of  hj;  success  ;  and  having  re-'utved 
to  resort  to  some  i;e<v  means  of  winning  her.  he.  with  a  too 
common  baseness.  H.\ed  upon  a  met  hud  \ 
lated.  if  successful,  to  end  ,t:  li.c  moi'i  .ti-a!  i«'M,  :  f  rot  ti,e 
unhajipiness.  of  a  third  party.  He  internied,  i'V  marked 
devotion  to  Kittv  K;iv,  to  excite  tiie  jealousy  of  Gertrude. 


190  THE  LA 


CHAPTER  XXVITI. 

Tun-:  I'oi.iTKNKys. 

A  IIALF-TIOUR    before    dinner    Mrs.     flraham    and    liov 

nieces.  Mr.  Bruce,  his  sister  Fannv,  and  Lieutenant  Os 
borne,  as  they  sat  in  the  larire  room,  liad  their  curiosity 
iniicli  excited  by  the  merriment  \vhieh  existed  in  KmihV 
room.  (iertrude'.-  clear  laii^h  was  distinguishable,  and 
even  Kmily  joined  in  the  outburst,  while  another  person 
appeared  to  he  of  the  partv,  as  a  most  singular  voice 
mingled  with  the  rest. 

Kitty  ran  to  the  entry  (  wo  or  three  times  to  listen,  and 
at  last  returned  with  the  announcement  that  (iertrude  was 
coining  down  stairs  with  the  very  queen  of  witches.  .Pres- 
ently (iertrude  opened  the  door,  which  Kittv  liad  slammed 
behind  her.  and  ushered  in  Miss  Patty  Pace,  who  advanced 
with  measured,  mincing  steps  to  .Mrs.  (  I  raham,  and,  stop- 
ping in  front  of  her,  made  a  low  eiirtsev. 

"  How  do  you  do,  ma'am  ?  "  said  Mi's.  (Iraham,  lialf  in- 
clined to  believe  that  (iertrude  was  playing  oil'  a  joko 
upon  her. 

<%This,  I  presume,  is  tin-  mistress,"1  said  Miss  I'attv. 

Mrs.  (Iraham  ackuowlcd^t'd  iier  claim  to  that  title. 

"'A  lady  of  presence  !"  said  Miss  I'attv.  to  (iertrude,  in 
an  audible  whi-per.  pronouneiiiLr  each  syllable  with  a  man- 
lier and  emphasis  peculiar  to  herself.  Then,  turning  to 
Belle,  who  was  shrinking  into  the  ^h.-idow  of  a  curtain,  she 
approached  her,  held  up  both  her  hands  in  astonishment, 
and  exclaimed.  ••  Mi-s  Isabella.  :is  I  still  enjnv  c.\istence  ! 
and  radiant,  too.  as  the  morning  !  P>les-  mv  heart.  !  how 
vo;ir  v;iiithl'nl  charms  haveexpanded  !  '' 

l)cllc  had  recognised  Mis-  I'ace  the  moment  slie  entered 
the  I'lHiin,  lint  was  a.-liamed  t<i  ac|\  no\\  led-je  the  accniaint- 
ance  of  so  eccentric  an  individual,  and  would  have  still 
fe  '  led  ignorance.  \>\\\  \\.\\\  noweame  forward,  exelaiining, 
"  \\  hv,  Wiss  I'a.-e.  \\he  in.,  fi-om  ' 

"Mi-.-   (  'a!  hai'ina."    -aid    Mis-    I'acc,   lakin;f    her    hands    in 
an    ec.-tasv  of   a  -  1  <  <ii  i  -h  tin  n  1  ,  "  /  '  f,  '  •//    nun    /,mtid(i'  utc  f      Bless 
IIIL;-  ".     Vniir  nii'.Miurv  ol    a:    ".d    '     •       I  !  " 

"  tV;,M.n!y,  I  knew  you  in  a.  minute;  you're  not  so  easily 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  191 

forgotten.  I  assure  you.     Belle,  don't  you    remember   Miss 
Pace?    It's  at  your  house  I've  always  seen  her." 

"  Oh,  is  it  she?  "  said  Beile,  with  a  poor  attempt  to  con- 
ceal the  fact  that  she  had  any  previous  knowledge  of  a  per- 
son who  had  been  a  frequent  visitor  at  her  father's  house, 
and  was  held  in  esteem  by  both  her  parents. 

"' 1  apprehend,"  said  Miss  Patty  to  Kitty,  in  the  same 
loud  whisper,  "  that  she  carries  a  proud  heart."  Then, 
without  having  appeared  to  notice  the  gentlemen,  who 
were  directly  behind  her.  she  added,  "Sparks,  I  see  Miss 
Catharina,  young  sparks  !  Whose? — yours  or  hers  ?  " 

Kitty  laughed,  for  she  saw  that  the  young  men  heard  her, 
and  were  much  amused,  ami  replied  without  hesitation,  "  O 
mine.  Miss  Patty,  mine,  both  of  'em  !  Miss  Patty  now 
looked  around  the  room,  and,  missing  Mr.  Graham,  ad 
vanced  to  his  wife,  saving,  "Ami  where,  .madam,  is  the 
bridegroom  ?  '' 

Mrs.  Graham,  a  little  confused,  replied  that  her  husband 
would  be  in  presently,  and  invited  .Miss  Pace  to  be  seated. 

*'  No,  mistress.  I  am  obliged  to  you  :  I  have  an  inquiring 
mind,  and,  with  your  leave,  will  take  a  survey  of  the  apart- 
ment. I  love  to  see  everything  that  is  modern."  She  then 
examined  the  pictures  upon  the  walls,  but  had  not  pro- 
ceeded far  before  she  turned  to  Gertrude  and  asked,  loud 
enough  to  be  heard,  '"  Gertrude,  my  dear,  what  have  they 
done  with  the  second  wife;  ?"  Gertrude  looked  surprised, 
and  Miss  Pace  corrected  her  remark,  saving.  '•  Oh.  it  is  the 
counterfeit  that  1  have  reference  to  ;  t!;e  original.  1  am 
aware,  departed  longsince  :  but  where  is  the  counterfeit  of 
the  second  Mrs.  Graham?  it  always  hung  here,  if  my 
memory  serves  me." 

Gertrude  whispered  a  reply  to  this  question,  and  Mi>s 
Pace  then  uttered  the  following  soliloquy  :  "The  garret  ' 
well,  'tis  the  course  of  nature  ;  what  is  new  obliterates  the 
recollection,  even,  id  the  old." 

She  now  linked  her  arm  in  Gertrude's,  and  made  In 
companion  of  her  survey.       \\hen  thev  had  complete 

e    stopped     in     I'miil   of    the  gnu 
V.'hf  ifll     \\  ere     eVel  I  i  U"    her     \\  1 1  h 

:ed  the  acquaint ance  < if  M  r.  \' 
ui need  to  t  hat  iii"inber  of  I  lie  war  de- 
partment, as  she  stvied  Lieutenant  Osborne.  Kitty  intro- 
duced her  with  great  1'ormality,  and  at  the.  same  time  pie- 


sen.ie1,"  the  lieutenant  to  Gertrude.  A  chair  was  now  brought, 
Miss  Patty  joined  their  circle  and  entertained  them  until 
dinner  time.  Gertrude  again  sought  .Kinily's  room. 

At  the  table,  (rertrude  sat  next  to  Fmiiv,  whose  Avunts  she 
always  made  her  care,  and  with  Miss  Patty  on  the  other 
side,  had  no  time  or  attention  to  bestow  on  anyone  else; 
much  to  the  chagrin  of  Mr.  Bruce,  who  was  anxious  she 
should  observe  his  assiduous  devotion  to  Kittv.  whose  hair 
was  adorned  witli  the  moss-rose  buds,  and  her  face  with 
smiles. 

Belle  was  also  made  happy  by  the  marked  admiration  of 
the  younv;  olli. •••)•.  Occasionally,  some  remark  made  by  Miss 
Pace  irresistibly  attracted  the  attention  of  every  one  at.  the 
table,  and  extorted  either  tlie  laughter  it  was  intended  to 
excite,  or  a  mirth  which,  though  perhaps  ill-timed,,  it  was 
impossible  to  repress. 

Mr.  Graham  treated  Miss  Patty  with  politeness  ami  atten- 
tion, and  M  rs.  G  raham  spared  no  pains  to  bring  out  I  he  old 
iadv's  conversational  powers.  She  found  that  Miss  Patty 
was  acquainted  with  everybody,  and  made  most  amusing 
comments  upon  almost  every  person  who  became  the  topic 
of  conversation.  Mr.  Graham  at  last  led  her  to  speak  of 
herself  and  her  lonely  mode  of  lij'e:  and  Fanny  Bruce,  who 
sat  next,  asked  her  bluntly,  why  she  never  got  married. 

"Ah,  my  young  miss,"  said  she,  ••  we  all  wa.it  our  time, 
and  I  may  take  a  companion  yet." 

••You  should,"  said  Mr.  Graham.  "•  Now  you  have 
property,  Miss  Pace,  and  ought  to  share'  it  with  some  nice 
thrifty  man. '' 

••  I  have  but  an  insignificant  trifle  of  worldly  wealth," 
said  Miss  Pace,  "and  am  not  as  youthful  as  I  have  been; 
hut  I  mav  suit  myself  with  a  companion,  notwithstanding. 
1  approve  of  matrimony,  and  have  my  eye  upon  a  young 
man.'' 

"A  i/mnty  limn  .' "  exclaimed  Fanny  Bruce,  laughing. 

"0  yes.  Miss  Frances."  said  Miss  Patty;  "I  anT  an 
adm  p-r  of  vouth.  and  of  everything  that  is  modern.  Yes, 
I  ding  to  life  I  tding  to  lite." 

••Certainly,"  remarked  Mrs.  Graham.  "Miss  Pace  must 
marry  -omebodv  voun^cr  than  herself;  someone  to  whom 
she  can  leave  all  her  property,  if  he  should  happen  to  out- 
live her." 

"Yes/5  paid  Mr.   Graham;  "at  present  you  would  not 


TJIK  LAMPLIGHTER.  193 

know  how  to  make  ;i  will,  unless  you  left  all  your  money  to 
Gertrude,  here;  I  rather  think  *l<e  would  make  j_rood  use 
of  it." 

"That  would  certainly  he  a  consideration  to  me."  paid 
Miss  Pace:  "I  should  dread  the  thought  of  having  my  little 
savings  squandered.  Xow,  I  know  there's  more  than  a 
sufficiency  of  pauper  population;  and  plenty  that  would  lie 
glad  of  legacies;  hut  I  h;ive  no  intention  of  bestowing  on 
such.  Why,  sir,  nine-tenths  of  them  will  r///'v//,x  ho  poor. 
No,  no  !  I  shouldn't  give  to  such  !  Xo,  no  !  1  have  other 
intentions/''' 

"Miss  Pare,"  asked  Mr.  Graham,  "  what  has  become  of 
General  Pace's  family?" 

"All  dead!"  replied  Miss  Patty,  promptly,  "nil  dead! 
I  made  a  pilgrimage  to  tin-  grave  of  thai  branch  of  the 
family.  It  was  a  touching  scene,"  said  she  in  a  pathetic  tone. 
"There  was  a  piece  of  grassv  ground,  belted  about  with  an 
iron  railing,  and  in  the  centre  a  beautiful  white  marble, 
monument,  in  which  they  wore  ail  buried;  it  was  pure  as 
alabaster,  and  on  it  was  inscribed  these  lines: 


"What  were  the  lines?'1  inquired  Mrs.  Graham. 

"Pace,  ma'am,  Pace:   nothing  e!>e." 

Solemn  as.  was  the  subject,  a  universal  titter  pervaded  the 
circle:  and  Mrs.  Graham,  perceiving  that  Kitt/  and  Fannv 
would  soon  burst  into  uncontrollable  fits  of  laughter,  made 
the  move  for  the  com  pan  v  to  quit  the  table. 

The  gentlemen  did  not  care  to  linger,  and  followed  the 
ladies  into  the  wide  entry,  the  coolness  of  whieh  invited 
every  one  to  loiter  there  during  th'1  heat  of  th"  day.  Miss 
Patty  and  Fanny  Hrwo  compelled  the  umvil'ir.g  (iertrude 
to  join  the  group  there-  assembled:  and  Mrs.  Graham,  who 
could  not  fore-go  her  afternoon  nap,  was  the  only  one  who 
absented  herself. 

So  universal  was  the  interest  Miss  Patty  excit 
private  dialogue  was  suspended,  and  close  atten 
to  whatever  topic  the  old  hcly  was  discussi 

Belle     maintained 
countenance,     and 
Lieutenant   Osborne 
Kitty   was   so  de 
she   made   710  attempt,  at.  any  exclusive  conversation,  and, 


104  THE  J,. \Uri.KUirER. 

with  Mr.  Bruce  sitting  beside  her  and  joining  in  her  amuse- 
ment, looked  more  than  contented. 

Dress  and  fashion,  two  favourite  themes  with  Miss  Pattv. 

rere  now  introduced,  and,  after  discoursing  upon  her  love 

'>f  the  beautiful,  as   witnessed    in   the  mantua-making  and 

tiillinery   arts,   she   deliberately    left    her   seat,   and    going 

-owai'ds  Belle  (who  wished  to  avoid  her),  began  to  examine 

the   material  of   her  dress,    and   requested   her  to  rise  and 

permit    her   to   further  inspect  the  .mode   in   which  it  was 

made,  declaring  the  description  of  so  modern  a  master-piece 

of  art   would   be  a  feast  to  the  ears  of  some  of  her  jiuror 

acquaintances. 

Belle  indignantly  refused  to  comply,  and  shook  off  the 
hand  of  the  old  lady  as  if  there  had  I 'ecu  contamination  in 
her  touch. 

"Do  stand  up.  Belle,"  said  Kitty,  in  an  undertone; 
''don't  be  so  cross." 

"  Why  don't  you  stand  up  yourself,  said  Belle,  "and  show 
Off  your  own  dress,  for  the  benefit  of  her  low  associates?" 

"She  didn't,  ask  me,"  replied  Kitty,  "but  I  will,  with 
pleasure,  if  she  will  condescend  to  look  at  it.  Miss  Pace." 
continued  she  gaily,  placing  herself  in  front  of  the  inquisi- 
tive Miss  Patty,  "do  admire  my  gown  at,  your  leisure,  and 
take  a  pattern  of  it,  if  you  like,  1  should  be  proud  of  the 
honour." 

For  a  wonder.  Kitty's  dress  was  pretty  and  well  worthy 
of  observation.  Miss  Pattv  made  many  comments,  and  her 
curios  it  v  being  satisfied,  commenced  retreat  ing  towards  the 
place  she  had  left,  first  glancing  behind  her  to  see  if  it  was 
still  vacant,  and  then  moving  towards  it  with  a  backward 
motion,  consisting  of  a  series  of  curtseys. 

Fanny  Bruce,  who  stood  near,  observing  that  she  had 
made  an  exact  calculation  how  manv  steps  would  be 
requiied  to  reach  her  seat,  placed  her  hand  on  the  hack 
of  the  chair,  as  if  to  draw  il  away:  and  encouraged  by  a 
look  and  smile  from  Isabel,  moved  it.  slightly,  but  still 
enough  to  endanger  the  old  ladv's  safety. 

On  attempting  to  regain  it.  Miss  Pace  stumbled,  and 
would  have  fallen,  but  (Jertrude  who  had  he.en  watching 
:  v's  proceedings  sprang  forward  in  time  to  fling  an 
arm  around  her,  and  pia-T  her  safdv  in  the  chair,  casting 
at  the  -ame  time  a  reproachful  look  at  Fannv.  who,  much 
confused,  turned  to  avoid  (iertrude's  gaze,  and  in  doiny  ir 


TIIE  LAMPLIGHTER,  105 

accidental!}    rrod  on  Mr.  Graham's  gouty  toes,  which  drew 
from  him  an  exclamation  of  pain. 

"Fan,''  said  Mr.  Bruce,  who  had  observed  the  latter 
accident  only,  "I  wish  you  could  learn  politeness." 

"  Whom  am  I  to  learn  it  from  ?"  asked  Fannv.  pertly, — 
"you?" 

Ben  looked  provoked,  hut  forbore  to  repiv ;  while  Miss 
Pace,  who  had  recovered  her  composure,  said--"  Polite- 
ness !  Ah.  a  lovely  but  rare  virtue;  pe''C>  pt  ibiy  developed, 
however,  in  the  manners  of  mv  friend  Gertrude,  which  I 
hesitate  not  to  affirm  would  well  become  a  princess." 

Belle  curled  her  lip,  and  smiled  disdainfully.  ••Lieutenant 
Osborne,"  said  she,  "don't  you  think  Miss  Devereux  has 
beauti ful  manners ?  " 

"Very  fine,"  replied  the  lieutenant;  "  the  style  in  which 
she  receives  company,  on  her  reception-day,  is  eleiranee 
itself." 

"Who  are  you  speaking  of?"  inquired  Kitty;  "Mrs. 
Harry  Noble  ?'" 

"Miss  Devereux.  we  were  remarking  upon/'  said  Belle; 
"but  Mrs.  Noble  is  also  very  stylish." 

"  I  think  she  is/'  said  Mr.  Bruce;  "do  you  hear.  Fanny? — 
we  have  found  a  mode!  for  vou,  -you  must  imitate  Mrs. 
Noble." 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  Mrs.  N'ohle."  retorted 
Fanny;  "I'd  rather  imitate  Mi.-.-  Flint.  M ;ss  Gertrude/" 
said  she,  "how  .s7/r///  I  learn  politeness' 

"Do  you  remember/'  ask'-d  Gertrude,  speaking  1o\v, 
"what  your  mush, -master  told  you  abon:  learning  to  ^/f// 
with  expression?  I  should  give  you  the  same  rule  for 
improvement  in  politeness/' 

Fanny  Mushed  deeply.  "What  is  that?  said  Mr. 
Graham  ;  "Fannv,  what  is  Gertrude's  rule  for  politeness/' 

"She  only  said/'  answered  Fumy,  "that  it  was  the  r-ame 
jny  music-master  gave  me  last  winter." 

"  And  what  did  A<   say?  "  im 

"I   asked    Mr.    Hermann," 
learn   to  pl:ty   with   expression 
cultivate  your  />'v,v7,   >!;>.-•   1'n 
h<M.rt."' 

This    IIPW    direction     for    t 
accomplishment     was    reeeivt 
indicated    as    great   a    vanetv  of  .-.rut  inieiits  as   tliere   waa 


|§6  T1JK  LAMTLl 

3  i  (Terence  of  character  among  Fann\'s  audience.  Mr. 
Graham  bit  his  lip.,  and  walked  a\vav  :  for  ///*  politeness 
was  founded  on  no  such  rule,  and  In-  know  that  (  icrtrude's 
?m,s\  Belle  looked  glorious  disdain;  Mr.  P.ruce  and  Kitty, 
puzzled  and  half  amused;  while  Lieutenant  Osborne  proved 
himself  not  quite  callous  to  a  noble  truth,  by  turning  upon 
Gertrude  a  glance  of  admiration.  Emily's  face  evidenced 
how  fully  she  coincided  ;n  the  opinion  thus  unintentionally 
inade  public,  and  Miss  Patty  expressed  her  approbation. 

"Miss  Gertrude's  remark  i-  a  verit  v,"  said  she.  "The 
only  politeness  which  i>  trust  worr.hy  is  ;lie  spontaneous 
offering  of  the  heart.  Perhaps,  th  -s  goodly  company  of 
masters  and  misses  would  condescend  to  give  ear  to  an  old 
woman's  tale  of  a  rare  instance  of  true  politeness,  and  the 
iitting  reward  it  met." 

All  expressed  strong  desire.  to  hear  Miss  Patty's  story, 
and  she  began:  "On  a  winter's  dav,  some  years  ago,  an  old 
woman,  of  many  foiblesand  weaknesses,  but  with  a  keen  eye 
and  her  share  of  worldly  wisdom—  Miss  Pattv  Pace  byname 
•  —  started,  by  special  invitation,  for  the  house  of  one 
worshipful  Squire  Clinton,  i,!«>  honoured  parent  of  Miss 
Isabella,  the  fair  damsel  yonder.  Kverv  iall  tree  ;n  our 
good  city  was  spangled  with  frost  work",  more  glittering'  far 
than  gems  that  sparkle  in  d'oleomla's  mine,  and  the  side- 
walk were  a  snare  to  the  feet  of  ihe  old  and  unwarv. 

"I  lost  mv  equilibrium,  and  fell.  Two  valiant  gentle- 
men lifted  and  earned  ir,e  to  a  neighboring  apothecary's 
emporium,  restored  my  scattered  \vits,  a'"'  revived  me  with 
a  fragrant  cordial.  I  went  on  mv  wa  \  *\ith  many  a  mis- 
giving, however,  and  scarcely  should  !  have  reached,  my 
destination  with  bones  unbroken,  hadit  not  been  for  a 
knight  with  a  rosy  couniena".ce.  who  overtook  me,  placed 
my  old  arm  within  his  own  more  strong  and  voiithfiil  one, 
and  protected  my  steps  to  the  end  of  mv  jonrne\.  ?\c 
slight  courage  either,  my  yon  ng  mi  -s<  s,  did  mv  noble  escort 
need,  to  carrv  him  through  what  ]1(.  |;;i']  isudei'takeTi. 
Paint  to  your  imauinatioii  a  outh,  fresh  and  beautiful  as 


rrow- 


u\\.t\ 


THE  LAwr.wrrTER.  107 

head  by  my  recent  I'M]].  and  n:y  gogs  -tlic  same  my  father 
wore  before  me  —covered  my  fare,  and  '  hey  alone  at  true  ted 
attention,  and  created  some  excitement.  But  "ne  went  on 
unmoved;  and,  in  spite  of  many  a  captivating  glance  and 
smile  from  rows  of  beautiful  young  maidens  whom  we  met, 
and  many  a  sneer  from  youths  of  his  own  age,  lie  sus- 
tained my  feeble  form  with  as  much  earu  as  if  I  had  been 
an  empress,  and  accommodated  his  buoyant  step  to  the 
slow  movement  which  mv  inlirmities  compelled.  Ah! 
what  a  spirit  of  conformity  he  manifested!  my  knight  of 
the  rosy  countenance!  Con  id  you  have  seen  him,  Miss 
Catharina,  or  you.  Miss  Frances,  your  palpitating  hearts 
would  have  taken  lli^ht  for  ever.  Jle  wan  a  paragon,  indeed. 

"Whither  his  own  way  irndcd  I  cannot  say,  for  ho 
moved  in  conformity  to  mine,  and  left  me  not  until  I  was 
safe  at  the  abode  of  Mistress  Clinton.  1  hardly  think  ho 
coveted  mv  old  heart,  out  1  sometimes  believe  it  followed 
him,  for  truly  lie  is  still  a  frequent  subject  of  my  medi- 
tations." 

"Ah!  then  fhff  was  his  reward!'-   exclaimed  Kitty. 

"Not  so.  Miss  Kittv:  uness  again." 

"I  can  think  of  ttuHiuni  M  ,)f?irabh,  Miss  Patty." 

"His  fiirtu):!'  in  Ufe.  Miss  Catharina — that  was  his  re- 
ward; it  may  he  that  tie  cannot  yet  estimate  the  full  amount 
of  his  recompense.'' 

"  How  so  ?  "  exclaimed  l-'annv. 

"I  will  brieily  narrate  the  rest.  Mistress  Clinton  en- 
couraged me  alwavs  to  convene  mneh  in  her  presence.  Slit- 
knew  my  taste  was  disno.-ed  to  humour  me,  and  I  was 
pleased  to  be  indulged.  1  to!d  my  .-lory,  and  enlarged 
upon  the  merits  of  mv  noble  Youth,  and  his  wonderful 
spirit  of  conformity.  T!,c  squire,  a  gentleman  who  esti- 
mates  good  breeding,  was  present,  with  his  ears  opened, 
when  1  recommended  my  knight,  with  all  tin- eloquence  I 
could  command:  he  was  amused,  intero.-ied.  pleased.  He 
promised  to  see  the  boy.  and  did  so;  tne  noble  features 
spake  for  themselves,  ami  .rained  him  a  situation  as  clerk; 
from  which  he  has  sinre  aovanced  in  the  ranks,  untd  n«w 
ho  occupies  the  posit  in;:  o  :  >  i  ;•'  n'-'1  ,;  i  <}  •  "'  .tiderit  ial  a^cnt 
in  a  ereilitalile  and  Wealthy  i.  ni-e.  .'  1-abcila.  ;t  would 

rejoice  mv  heart  to  lu.-a:  the  latest  tidings  from  Mr.  \\il- 
liam  Sullivan." 


Tin-:  i,.  t.v /*/.  m if TKii 

"  lie  is  well,  T  believe."  said  Isabella,  sulkily.  "  I  know 
nothing;'  to  the  coin  rary." 

"Oh,  (.lertrudc  k  iiou  s."  said  Fanny.     "  Gertrude  knows 

all  about  Mr.  Suhivan;  she  v,  ill  tell  YOU." 

All  turned,  and  looked  at.  (In'trude,  who,  with  face 
Hushed,  and  eyes  glistening  with  the  interest  she  felt  in 
Miss  Patty's  narrative,  stood  leaning  upon  Kmilv's  chair, 
Miss  i'atty  now  appealed  to  her.  much  .surprised,  however, 
at  her  having  any  knowledge  of  her  much  admired  voting 
escort,  (iertrude  drew  near,  and  answered  all  her  ques- 
tions without  the  least  hesitation  or  embarrassment. 

(Jertrude  gave  Miss  1'ace  an  account  of  the  curiosity 
which  \\"illic  and  Ins  friends  had  felt  concerning  the  orig- 
inal author  of  his  <;'ood  fortune:  and  tin.- old  lady  was  so 
delighted  at  hearing  the  various  conjectures  about  Mr. 
('linton's  unexpected  summons,  and  of  the  matter  being 
attributed  to  the  agency  of  Santa  Clans,  that  she  loudlv 
laughed.  M:ss  Pace  uas  ju-t  taxing  (iertrude  with  mes- 
sagi-s  of  remembrance  to  In-  despatched  i;i  her  next  letter 
to  \Viilie,  when  M rs.  (! i'a hum  presented  herself,  and  arrested 
the  attention  of  i  he  \vhuje  companv  bv  exclaiming,  in  her 
abrupt  manner  ai:d  loud  'ones  -••  \\hat!  are  voii  all  here/1 
I  thought  voa  were  Ivoiind  1'or  a  walk  in  the  woods.  Kitty, 
what  has  become  of  vmir  cherished  scheme  of  climbing 
Sunset  Hill?  " 

"I  proposed  it.  aunt,  an  hour  ago,  but  lielle  insisted  it 
was  too  warm.  /  think  the  weather  is  just  ri"ht  for  a 
walk." 

"  It  will  soon  be  growing  cool,"  said  Mr<.  (iraham,  "and 
I  think  you  had  better  start;  it  is  some  distance,  if  you 
go  round  throiii:'h  the  woods."' 

"Who  knows  the  uav?"  asked  Kitty. 

No  one  responded  In  the  question,  and  all  professed 
ignorance;  miidi  \«  the  astonishment  of  (Jerti'tidf,  who 
believed  that  everv  par!  of  the  woody  ground  and  bill  be- 
yond were  familiar  to  Mr.  l>niec.  Slie  did  not  stay,  how- 
ever, to  hear  aiiv  further  discus-ion  of  their  plans;  for 
Kmdvwas  beginning  to  RnlTcr  from  headache  and  weari- 
ins  -ted  thai  she  -hould  seek  the  (piiet 
and  she  went  with  her.  She  was  just 
er  door,  when  Fanny  called  from  tho 
i •  ain't  voii  troing  for  a  walk  with 


THE  LAWPLTOITTER. 

"No,"  replied  Gertrude;  -'-'not  to-day." 

"Then  1  won't  go,"  said  Fanny,  "if  you  don't.  Why 
don't  you  go,  Miss  (Jertrude;'  " 

"I  shall  walk  with  Miss  Fmily,  bv-and-bve,  if  she  is 
well  enough;  you  can  accompany  us.  if  you  like,  but  you 
would  enjoy  going  to  Sunset  Hill  much  more." 

Meantime  a  whispered  consultation  took  place  below,  in 
which  someone  suggested  that  (Jertrude  was  well  acquainted 
with  the  path  which  the  party  wished  to  follow  through 
the  woods.  Belle  opposed  her  being  invited  to  join  them; 
Kitty  hesitated  between  her  liking  for  (lertrude  and  her 
fears  regarding  Mr.  Bruce's  allegiance;  Lieutenant  Osborne 
forbore  to  urge  what  Belle  disapproved:  and  Mr.  Bruce  re- 
mained silent,  trusting  to  the  final  necessity  of  her  being 
invited  to  act  as  guide,  in  which  capacity  he  had  purposely 
concealed  his  own  ability  to  serve.  This  necessity  was  so 
obvious,  that,  as  he  had  foreseen,  Kitty  was  at  last  des- 
patched to  find  Gertrude  and  make  known  their  request. 


CIIAPTKK  XXIX. 

IIAUTKUK. 

GERTRUDE  would  have  declined,  and  made  her  a^ttend- 
ance  upon  Kmilvan  excuse  for  non-compliance;  but  Kmiiy, 
believing  that  the  exercise  would  be  beneficial  to  (iertrude, 
interfered,  and  begged  her  to  agree  to  Kitty'--;  proposal; 
and,  on  the  latt er  declaring  t  ha t  !  lie  expedition  must  other- 
wise be  give?i  up,  she  consented  to  join  it.  To  change  her 
slippers  for  thick  walking  bouts  occupied  a  few  minutes 
only;  a  few  more  Wore  spent  in  a  \ain  search  for  her  t!at 
hat,  which  was  missing  from  t  he  closet  where  it,  usually 
hung. 

"  What  are  you  looking  for  ?"  said  Kniily.  hearing  (ler- 
trude twice  open  the  dour  of  the  closet. 

"  My  hat!  but  1  don't  see  it.  I  believe  I  shall  have  to 
borrow  your  sun-bonnet  again,"  and  she  took  up  a  while 
sun-bonnet,  the  same  she  had  WOIM  1:1  the  morning,  and 
which  now  lav  on  the  bed. 

"  Certainly,  my  dear,"  s.uid  Ktuily. 


L'MO  T1FK  I.AMPl  TiUITKR. 

"  I  shall  begin  to  think  it  mint*  before  long/'  said  Oer* 
trude,  gaily,  as  she  ran  oil'.  "  I  wear  it.  so  much  more  than 
YOU  do."  Km  ilv  now  railed  from  the  staircase,  "(Gertrude, 
my  child,  have  you  thick  shoe-;?  It  is  always  very  wet  in 
the  meadow  beyond  Thornton  place."  (Jertrude  assured 
her  that  she  had;  but,  fearing  that,  the  others  were  less 
carefully  equipped,  inquired  ot'  Mrs.  Graham  whether  Belle 
and  Kitty  were  insured  against  the  dampness  they  might 
encounter. 

Mrs.  (Iraham  declared  they  were  not.  "I  have  some 
very  light  indianibbers,"  said  (iertrude;  "  I  will  take  them 
with  me,  and  Fanny  and  1  sh:dl  be  in  time  to  warn  them 
before  the\  come  I  o  t  he  pl:u:e. 

It  was  an  easy  matter  to  overtake  Belle  and  the  lieuten- 
ant, for  th"Y  walked  very  slowly.  and  seemed  not  unwilling 
to  be  left  in  the  rear.  The  reverse  was  the  case  with  Mr. 
Bruce  and  Kilty,  who  appeared  purposelv  to  keep  in  ad- 
vance; Kitty  hastening  her  steps  from  her  reluctance  to 
allow  unagreeable  d'te-u-li'U'  lo  be  interfered  with,  and  lieu 
from  a  desire  to  give  (Jerirude  a  fair  opportunity  to  ob- 
serve his  devotion  to  Kitty,  which  increased  the  moment 
*//c  came  in  sight. 

Thev  had  now  passed  the  Thornton  farm,  and  only  one 
field  separate,;  them  from  the  nr-adow,  which  was  in  the 
centre  a  complete  quagmire,  and  onlv  passable  to  the 
thickly-shod,  by  keeping  clo-e  to  the  wall,  and  thus  skirting 
the  Held,  (iertrude  and  Fanny  weresome  distance  behind, 
and  nearlv  "ill  <>f  bi'eath  \\ilh  a  pursuit  in  which  the 
others  had  gained  so  ;rre;it  advantage.  As  thev  were 
pa--it;  •:  the  farm-hon-e,  Mi's.  Then. ion  came  to  the  door 
and  addressed  d'ertrudc,  who.  foi'esceing  that  she  would  be 
detained  -nine  minutes,  bade  F.-uinv  run  on,  acquaint 
her  brother  and  Kittv  with  the  nature  of  the  sod  in  ad- 
vance, and  begged  ihem  to  wait  at  the  bars  until  the  rest 
of  the  parly  came  up.  Fanny  was  too  late,  notwithstand- 
ing the  haste  she  made;  the\  \ser(!  half  aci'^ss  the  nieado'.v 
when  she  reached  the  bars,  proceeding  in  perfect  safety, 
fnr  M  •.  lii'iice  was  condiie!  i  b\  the  onlv  practicable 

pat  h.  eld.--.'  under  t  he  wal  1.  '  • .  \\  \  •  •*  to  ( Jcrt  rude,  who  in  a 
few  mi  itiient  -  joined  Fanny,  t  i  . I  he  was  no  st  ranger  to  the 
l>la  e.  \\  hen  thev  u  i  re  h  I'-  .  a  oss.  l  hev  encountered 
S.I'MC  oh  tacle,  for  Kittv  -!<>i.(!  po;sed  mi  one  foot  and 
el.nginj.'  to  the  wad,  while  Mr.  UriJce  jiJaued  a  i'uw  step- 


77/77  T.AMPLWIJTRR.  i?i>l 

ping-stones  across  the  path.  He  then  helped  her  over,  ami 
they  went  on,  their  figures  soon  disappearing  in  the  grove 
beyond. 

Isabel  and  the  lieutenant  were  so  long  making  their 
appearance  that  Fanny  became  verv  impatient,  and  ur^ed 
Gertrude  to  leave  them  to  their  fate.  Thev  at  last  turned 
the  corner  near  the  farm-house,  and  came  on,  Belle  main- 
taining her  leisurely  pace.  "  Are  you  lame,  Miss  Clinton':'  * 
called  out  Fanny,  so  soon  as  thev  were  within  hearing. 

"  Lame  I  "  said  Belle;  "what  do  you  mean?" 

"Why,  you  walk  so  slow/'  said  Fanny;  "'I  thought 
something  must  be  the  matter  witli  vour  feet.  " 

Belle  disdained  any  replv,  and,  tossing  her  head,  entered 
the  damp  meadow,  in  close;  conversation  with  her  devoted 
young  oilieer,  not  deigning  even  to  look  at  (iertrude,  who, 
without  appearing  to  notice  !HT  haughtiness,  took  Fannv'sj 
hand,  and,  turning  away  from  the  direct  path,  to  make  the 
circuit  of  the  field,  said  to  Belle,  with  cairn  courtesy  of 
.winner,  "  This  way,  if  you  please,  A!  iss  (  linton  ;  we  ha\e 
been  waiting  to  guide  you  through  this  wet  meadow." 

"  Is  it  wet?"  a.-kt  d  Belle,  in  alarm,  glancing  down  at  her 
delicate  slipper.  She  then  added,  in  a  provoked  tone,  "  1 
should  have  thought  you  would  have  known  better  than  to 
bring  us  this  way.  1  .-han't  go  acro.-s." 

"Then  you  can  go  back."  said  the  pert  Fanny;  "'nobody 
cares." 

"  It  was  not  m  v  proposition,'3  re  marked  (iert  rude,  mildly, 
though  with  a  heightened  colour;  "hut  1  think  1  can  help 
you  through  t  he  dilliciiliy.  Mrs.  (iraham  wa-  afraid  you 
had  worn  thin  shoes,  and  1  brought  you  a  pair  of  india- 
rubbers. 

Belie  took  them,  and,  withouf  tin-  grace  to  r\pre.--  anv 
thanks,  .-aid.  as  slie  unfolded  the  paper  in  winch  thev  \\vre 
wrapped,  "  \\'h.ose  arc  thev  ?  " 

"  Mine."   replied  ( iertrudc. 

(i  1  don't  believe  I  can  keep  them  on,"  muttered  Bel'e; 
"  they'll  be  immense,  1  suppose." 

"'Allow  me,"  said  the  lieutenant:  and.  taking  one  of  the 
shoes,  lie  stooped  to  place  it  on  her  foot,  iiiit  t'oiind  :'  <i;ili- 
eult  to  do  so.  as  it  wa-  t  «<)  small.  Be.  le.  percei\  ing  it .  i  »".•  ( 
clown  to  perform  the  otli'v  for  hersi-if,  and  treated  (Jer- 
trude's  propertv  with  such  angry  violeiii-e  that  she  snapped 


202  THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 

the  it  rap  which  passed  across  the  instep,  and  even  then 
only  succeeded  in  partially  forcing  her  foot  into  the  shoe. 

Meantime,  as  she  bent  forward,  Fan nv's  attention  \vas 
attracted  by  ;i  very  tasteful  broad-brimmed  hat,  which  she 
wore  jauntily  on  one  side  ot  her  head,  and  wni-'h  Fanny 
recognised  as  Gertrude's.  Jtwas  a  somewhat  fanciful  arti- 
cle of  dress,  that  (iertrude  would  liardly  have  thought  of 
purchasing  for  herself,  hut  which  Mr.  Graham  had  brought 
home  to  her  the  previous  summer  to  replace  a  common 
garden  hat  which  ho  had  accidentally  crushed.  As  the 
style  of  it  was  simple  and  in  good  taste,  she  had  been  in 
the  habit  of  wearing  it  oftcni  in  her  country  walks,  and 
kept  it  hung  in  the  closet,  where  it  had  been  found  and 
appropriated  by  Belle.  It  had  been  seen  by  Fanny  in 
Gertrude's  room  at  Mrs.  vVarren's  ;  she  had  also  been  per- 
mitted to  wear  it  on  one  occasion,  when  she  took  part  in  a 
charade.  Having  heard  Gertrude  suy  it  was  missing,  she 
was  astonished  to  see  it  adorning  Uelle;  and,  as  she  stood 
behind  her,  made  signs  to  Gertrude,  and  performed  a  -cries 
of  pantomimic  gestures  expressive  of  an  intention  to  snatch 
it  from  Miss  Clinton's  head,  and  place  it  on  that  of  its 
rightful  owner. 

Gertrude's  gravity  nearly  gave  way.  She  shook  her  head 
at  Fanny,  held  up  her  linger,  made  signs  to  her  to  forbear, 
and,  with  a  face  whose  laughter  was  only  concealed  by  the 
deep  white  bonnet  which  she  wore,  took  her  hand,  and 
hastened  with  her  along  the  path,  leaving  lielle  and  her 
beau  to  follow. 

'•  Fanny/'  said  she,  ''you  must  not  make  me  laugh  so; 
if  Miss  Clinton  had  seen  us  she  would  have  been  verv  much 
hurt." 

"  She  has  no  business  to  wear  your  hat,"  said  Fanny, 
•'  and  she  shan't." 

"Yes.  she  shall,"  replied  Gertrude;  "she  looks  beauti- 
ful in  it.  1  am  delighted  to  have  her  wear  it,  ami  you 
must  not  intimate  to  her  that  it  is  mine.'' 

The  walk  through  the  woods  was  delightful,  and  Ger- 
trude ;tnd  her  young  companion,  in  the  (juiet  enjoyment  of. 
;t,  had  almost  forgotten  that  they  were  members  of  a  gay 
party,  when  they  suddenly  came  in  siirlit  of  Kitty  and  Mr. 
Bruce.  Thev  were'  sitting  at  the  foot  of  an  old  oak,  Kitty 
earnestly  engaged  in  the  manufacture  of  an  oak-wreath, 
which  she  was  just  tilling  to  her  attendant's  hat:  while  h.*-' 


TftK  LAMPT.TOnrfiR.  2<");-{ 

himself,  when  Gertrude  first  caught  sight  of  him,  was  lean- 
ing against  the  tree  in  a  can-less  attitude.  But  as  soon  as 
lie  perceived  their  approach,  he  bent  forward,  inspected 
Kitty's  work,  and  when  they  came  within  hearing,  was 
uttering  a  profusion  of  thanks  and  compliments,  which  lie 
took  care  should  reach  (Jertrude's  ears,  and  Kittv  received 
with  manifest  pha-ure —  a  pleasure  which  was  still  further 
enhanced  by  her  perceiving  that  Gertrude  had  apparently 
lio  power  to  withdraw  his  attention  from  her.  1'oor,  sim- 
ple Kitty!  she  believed  him  honest  while  he  bought  her 
heart  with  counterfeits.  "  Miss  Gertrude,"  said  Fanny, 
"  1  wish  we  could  go  into  some  pine  woods,  so  that  1  could 
get  some  cones  to  make  baskets  and  frames  of.'' 

"There  are  plenty  of  pines  in  that  direction,"  said  Ger- 
trude, pointing'  with  her  linger. 

"Why  can't  we  go  and  look  for  cones?  "asked  Fanny; 
"we  could  get  back  by  the  time  Belle  Clinton  reaches  this 
place." 

Gertrude  and  Fanny  started  off,  having  first  tied  their 
bonnets  to  the  branch  of  a  tree.  They  were  gone  some 
time,  for  Fanny  found  plenty  of  cones,  but  was  at  a  loss 
how  to  carry  them  home.  "!  have  thought,"  said  sh*1,  at 
last;  "I  will  run  baek  and  borrow  brother  lien's  handker- 
chief; or,  if  he  won't  let  me  have  it.  I'll  take  mv  own  bon- 
net and  (ill  it  full."  Gertrude  promised  to  await  her  ret  urn, 
and  she  ran  oil'.  When  she  came  near  the  spot  where  she 
had  left  Kitty  and  Mr.  Bruce,  she  heard  several  voices  and 
loud  laughter.  Belle  and  the  lieutenant  had  arrived,  and 
they  were  having  great  spoil  about  something.  Belle  was 
standing  with  the  white  cape  bonnet  in  her  hand.  >She  had 
bent  it  completely  out  of  shape,  so  as  to  give  it  the  appear- 
ance of  an  old  woman's  cap,  had  adorned  the  front  with 
white-weed  and  dandelions,  and  finally  pinned  on  a  hand- 
kerchief to  Serve  as  a  veil.  Nile  held  it  up  on  the  end  of 
the  lieutenant's  cane,  and  \\a>  endeavouring  to  obtain  a  bid 
for  Miss  Flint's  bridal  bonnet. 

Fanny   listened   a   moment,   with   an   indignant    counten- 
ance,   then   advanced    with    a    bound,    as 
from  the  woods.      Kittv  caught  her  fmck  a- 
exclaimed,  "Why,    Fannv,  are    you    here 
trude?" 

'' Oh,  she's  in  the  pine  woods!  "  replied  Fanny,  "and  I'm 


'2()4-  THE  LA 

going  back,  she  only  sent  me  to  get  lior  hut,  the  sun's  so 
\vann  where  we  are.'"' 

11  Ah,  yes!"  said  Belle,  '•'  her  Paris  liat.  Plea.se  give  it 
to  her,  with  our  compliments." 

"  Xo,  that  isn't  hers,"  said  Fanny;  "  tit  at  is  Miss  Ernilv's 
7 '///'.vis  hers;'7  and  she  laid  her  hand  upon  the  straw  head- 
dress \vhieh  the  gentlemen  had   but  a  moment  before  been 
assuring  Belle  was  vastly  becoming,  and,  without  ceremony, 
snatehed  it  from  her  head. 

"  Belle's  eyes  flashed  angrily.  "What  do  you  mean?" 
said  she;  "you  saucy  little  creature!  Give  me  that  hat!" 
and  she  stretched  out  her  hand  to  take  it. 

"I  shan't  do  any  such  thing!"  said  Fanny;  "it's  Ger- 
trude's hat.  Slie  looked  for  it  this  afternoon,  but  concluded 
it  was  either  lost  or  stolen,  and  so  borrowed  Miss  Fmilv's 
cape-bonnet;  but  she'll  be  very  glad  to  find  it,  and  I'll 
earrv  it  to  her.  1  rather  think,"  said  she,  looking  over  her 
•\houldiT,  as  she  ran  oil'.  "  I  rather  think  Miss  Emily  would 
ne  willing  you  should  wear  her  bonnet  home,  if  you'll  lie 
careful,  and  not  bend  it." 

A  few  moments  of  anger  to  Belle,  laughter  from  Kitty 
and  Mr.  Bruce,  and  concealed  amusement  on  Lieutenant 
Osbor".e's  part,  and  Gertrude  came  hastily  from  the  woods, 
with  the  hat  in  her  hand.  Fanny  following  her;  and,  tak- 
ing advantage  of  Belle's  position,  with  her  back  towards 
her,  resumed  her  pantomimic  threats  and  insinuations. 
"  Miss  Clinton,"  said  Gertrude,  as  she  replaced  the  hat  in 
h'T  lap,  '"*  I  am  afraid  Fanny  has  been  very  rude  in  my 
name.  1  did  not  send  her  for  either  hat  or  bonnet,  and 
shall  be  pieased  to  have  you  wear  this  as  often  as  you  like." 
••  1  don't  want  it."  said  Belle,  scornfully;  "I'd  no  idea 
it  belonged  to  you." 

"Certainly  not  ;  lam  aware  of  it."  said  Gertrude.  '•'  But 
1  trust  that  will  not  pre\en(  von  making  use  of  it  i'orto- 
lea-t."  Without  urging  the  matter  further,  she 
that  thf'V  should  ha.-ten  on  to  the  top  of  the  li'dl, 
reach  before  sunset  ;  and 
>rward  in  that  direction, 
li .-  \  iirj;  hersel  f  a-  she  went 
fr<>m  Fimlv's  despised  hon- 
•ed  handkerchief  under  her 
Mr.  Bruce  s,u  inking  011  hid  arm  the  otherwise 
netrlected  hut. 


THK  LAMPLWUTETl  20.5 

Relic  did  not.  recover  her  temper  during  the  evening;  tno 
rest  found  their  excursion  agreeable.  ;ind  it  was  nearly  dark 
when  they  reached  the  Thornton  farm  on  their  return. 
Here  Gertrude  left  them,  telling  Fannv  that  she  had  prom- 
ised to  stop  and  seeJennyThornton.one  of  her  Sunday-school 
class,  who  was  in  a  fever,  and  refusing  to  let  her  remain,  as 
her  mother  might  not  wish  her  to  enter  the  house,  where 
several  of  the  family  were  sick.  About  an  hour  after,  as 
Gertrude  was  walking  home  in  some  haste,  she  was  joined 
near  Mr.  Graham's  house  by  Mr.  Bruce,  who,  with  her  hat 
still  hanging  on  his  arm,  seemed  to  have  been  awaiting  her 
return.  She  started  on  his  abruptly  joining  her,  for  it  was 
so  dark  that  she  did  not  at  once  recognise  him,  and  sup. 
posed  it  might  be  a  stranger. 

"  MH»S  Gertrude  ,"  said  he,  '"'I  hope  I  don't  alarm  yon." 

"Oh  n.),'''  said  she,  reassured  by  the  sound  of  his  voice; 
"I  did  not  know  who  it  was.'"' 

He  offered  his  arm.  and  she  took  it:  for  his  recent  devo- 
tion to  Kitty  had  served  in  some  degree  to  relieve  her  of 
any  fear  she  had  i'elt  lest  his  attentions  carried  meaning 
with  them;  and  concluding  that  he  liked  to  play  beau- 
general,  .she  had  no  objection  to  his  escorting  her  home. 

"We  had   a  very  pleasant  walk  this  evening,''  said  he 
"at  least,  I  had.     Miss  Kitty  is  a  very  entertaining  com- 
panion.'' 

"  I  think  she  is,  "  replied  Gertrude;  "I  like  her  frank, 
lively  manners  much." 

"I  am  afraid  von  found  Fanny  rather  poor  company.  1 
should  have  joined  you  occasionally,  but  I  could  hardly  find 
an  opportunity  to  quit  Miss  Kitty,  we  were  so  much  inter- 
ested in  what  we  were  saying.'*' 

".Fanny  and  I  are  accustomed  to  each  other,  and  very 
happy  together,"  said  Gertrude. 

"Do  you  know  we  have  p/ainied  a  delightful  drive  foi 
to-morrow  ?" 

"\o;  I  was  not  aware  of  it." 

"I  suppose  Miss  Kay   expects  T  shall  ask  her  to  go   with 
me:  but  supposing.   Miss   Gertr 
preference,  and  ask  von.  \\l,a;  ,- 

"That  !   was  Miiii-h  obliged    t 
rnent  to  take  u  drive  W't  h    Mi-s 


Indeed  !  '•'   .said  he,   in  a.  suppressed  and   provoked   l<.ue 


206  THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 

"  I  thought  you  would  like  it:  but  Miss  Kitty,  I  doubt  not 
will  accept.     1  will  go  in  and  ask   her.     Here  is  your  hat.'' 

"  Thank  vou,"  said  Gertrude,  and  would  have  taken  it; 
but  Ben  still  held  it  by  one  string,  and  said — 

"Then  you  won't  go,  Miss  Gertrude  ?" 

"My  engagement  with  Miss  Emily  cannot  be;  postponed 
on  any  account/'5  answered  Gertrude,  thankful  that  tdie 
had  so  excellent  a  reason  for  declining. 

"Nonsense!"  said  Mr.  Bruce;  "you  could  go  with  meij 
you  chose;  and  if  vou  don't,  I  shall  certainly  invite  Mis.- 
Kitty." 

The  weight  he  seemed  to  attach  to  this  threat  astonished 
Gertrude.  ''Can  it  be  possible.''  thought  she.  "that  he 
expects  thus  to  pique  and  annoy  me?"  and  she  replied  by 
saying,  "'I  shall  be  happy  if  my  declining  prove  the  means 
of  Kitty's  enjoying  a  pleasant  drive:  she  is  fond  of  variety, 
and  has  few  opportunities  here  to  indulge  her  taste." 

They  now  entered  the  house.  Mr.  Bruce  sought  Kitty 
in  the  recess  of  the  window,  and  Gertrude,  not  finding 
Emily  present,  stayed  but  a  short  time  in  the  room — long 
enough,  however,  to  observe  Mr.  Bruce'.-;  exaggerated  devo- 
tion to  Kitty,  which  was  marked  by  others  beside  himself. 
Kitty  promised  to  accompany  him  the  next  day,  and  did 
so.  Mrs.  Graham,  Mrs.  Bruce,  Belle,  and  the  lieutenant, 
went  also  in  another  vehicle,  and  Emily  and  Gertrude  took 
a  different  direction,  and  driving  white  Charlie  in  the  old- 
fashioned  buggy,  rejoiced  in  their  quiet  independence. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

VANITY. 

DAYS  and  weeks  passed  on,  and  no  marked  event  took 
place  in  Mr.  Graham's  household.  The  weather  became  in- 
tensely warm,  and  no  more  walks  and  drives  wen1  phnned. 
The,  lieutenant  left  the  city,  and  Isabel,  who  could  neither 
endure  with  patience  excessive  heal  nor  want  of  society, 
grew  more  irritable  t  han  ever. 

To  Kit  tv.  however,  tiiese  summer  days  were,  fraught  with 
.,  Mr.  Bruce  visited  constantly  at  the  house,  and 


THE   LAMrLHUITKR.  2<>7 

had  grout  iniluenee  upon  her  outward  demeanour  and  her 
inward  happiness,  which  fluctuated  as  his  attentions  were 
freely  bestowed  or  altogether  suspended.  No  wonder  the 
poor  girl  was  puzzled  to  understand  one  whose  conduct  was 
eertaiuly  inexplicable  to  any  but  those  initiated  into  his 
motives.  .Believing,  as  he  did,  that  Gertrude  would  in  time 
show  a  disposition  to  win  him  back,  he  was  anxious  only  to 
carry  his  addresses  to  Kitty  to  such  a  point  as  would  excite 
a  serious  alarm  in  the  mind  of  the  poor  jirott'ijc*:  of  the 
Grahams,  wiio  dared  to  slight  his  proffered  advances. 
Acting  then  as  he  did  almost  wholly  with  reference  to  Ger- 
trude,  it  was  only  in  her  presence,  or  under  such  circum- 
stances that  he  was  sure  it  would  reach  her  ears,  that  he 
manifested  a  marked  interest  in  Kitty:  and  his  behaviour 
was,  therefore,  in  the  highest  degree,  unequal,  leading  the 
warm-hearted  Kitty  to  believe  one  moment  that  he  felt  for 
her  almost  the  tenderness  of  a  lover,  and  the  next  to  sutler 
under  the  apprehension  of  having  unconsciously  wounded 
or  offended  him.  Unfortunately,  too,  Mrs.  Graham  took 
every  opportunity  to  congratulate  her  upon  her  conquest, 
thereby  increasing  the  simple  girl's  confidence  in  the  sin- 
cerity of  Mr.  Bruce's  admiration. 

Gertrude,  whose  eyes  were  soon  opened  to  the  existing 
state  of  things,  was  filled  with  apprehension  on  account  of 
Kitty,  for  whose  peace  and  welfare  she  felt  great  concern. 
The  suspicions  to  which  Mr.  Bruce's  conduct  gave  rise  were 
soon  strengthened  into  convictions;  for,  on  several  occa- 
sions, after  lie  had  olTered  Kittv  proofs  of  deMition,  he 
tested  their  effect  upon  Gertrude  by  some  attention  to  her- 
self: intimating  that  she  had  it  in  her  power  to  rob  Kitty 
of  all  claim  upon  his  favour. 

Gertrude  availed  herself  of  every  opportunity  to  acquaint 
him  with  the  truth,  that  he  could  not  render  himself  more 
odious  in  her  eyes  than  by  the  use  of  such  mean  attempts 
to  mortify  her;  but  attributing  her  warmth  to  jeahmsv. 
which  he  desired  to  excite,  the  selfish  young  man  per.-e- 
vered  in  his  course  of  wickedness.  As  he  only  proffered 
his  attentions,  and  made  ro  offer  of  his  hi  -art  and  hand. 
Kitty,  having  forgotten  that  she  had  a  few  weeks  back 
looked  upon  Gertrude  as  a  rival,  now  chose  IHT  for  her 
bosom  friend;  and  the  transparency  of  her  character  uas 
such  that  she  betrayed  her  secret  to  Gertrude.  Though  "" 
one  but  Gertrude  appeared  i.<>  observe  it.  Kill}'  \\a>  won- 


77/A'  LAMTLIGIITKR. 

dcrfully  changed; — the  gay,  laughing,  careless  Kitty  had 
IK,\V  her  tits  of  musing — her  sunny  face  was  subject  to 
clouds,  that  flitted  across  it.  and  robbed  it  of  all  its  bright- 
ness. If  she  found  (Jertrudc  .-itting  alone  in  her  room  she 
would  approach,  throw  her  arm  around  her,  and  talk  on 
her  favourite  topic.  She  would  relate  the  complimentary 
speeches  ami  polite  attentions  of  Mr.  Bruce,  talk  about  him 
for  an  hour,  and  question  ( iertrude  as  to  her  opinion  of  his 
merits.  She.  would  ask  if  (iertrude  really  supposed  he 
meant  all  he  said,  and  add,  that  of  course  she  didn't  believe 
lie  did — it  was  all  nonsense.  And  if  (iertrude  avowed  the 
same  opinion,  and  declared  it  was  best  not  to  trust  his  flat- 
teries, poor  Kitty's  face  would  fail,  and  she  would  give  her 
reasons  for  funnel  imcs  thinking  he  was  sincere — he  had  such 
a  frit  fit fill,  car  next-  way  of  speaking. 

At  last  Mr.  Bruce  tried  (iertrude's  firmness  by  offering  to 
her  acceptance  a  rich  ring.  .Not  a  little  surprised  at  his 
presumption,  she  declined  it  without  ceremony,  and  the 
next  day  saw  it  on  the  linger  of  Kitty,  who  was  eager  to 
Lrive  an  account  of  its  presentation. 

"And  did  von  ncrt /_>/  it?"  asked  (iertrude.  with  such  a 
look  of  astonishment,  that  Kitty  observed  it,  and  evaded  an 
acknowledgment  of  having  done  so,  by  saying,  with  a 
blushing  countenance,  that  she  agreed  to  wear  it  a  little 
while. 

"  I  wouldn't,'"  said  (iertrude. 

"  Why  not  ?" 

"  Because,  in  the  first  place,  T  do  not  think  it  is  in  good 
taste  to  receive;  such  rich  gifts  from  gentlemen;  and  then, 
airain,  if  strangers  notice  it,  you  may  be  subjected  to  un- 
pleasant, significant  remarks." 

"  What  would  you  do  with  it?  "  asked  Kitty. 

"  1  should  irive  it  bark.'' 

Kitty  looked  verv  undecided  ;  but  concluded  to  offer  it  to 
Mr.  Bruce,  ;md  tell  him  what  (Irrtrude  said.  She  did  so, 
and  that  gentleman,  little  appreciat  ing  (iertrude's  motives, 
and  believing  her  onlv  desirous  of  making  diflicultv  be- 
tween him  and  Ki'tv.  jumped  at  the  conclusion  that  her 
heart  was  won  at  la-'t.  He  was  disappointed,  therefore, 
wlirn.on  his  next  meeting  with  h'T,  she  treated  him  as  she 
had  invariablv  done  of  iat.e,  with  cool  civility:  indeed,  it 
H'-i'iiu-ii  TO  him  that  she  was  more  insensible  than  ever  to 


THE  LAMPLIUUTEE.  200 

his  attractions,  and  hastily  quitted  tlie  house,  much  to  the 
distress  of  Kitty. 

"Shall  I,"  thought  lie,  "marry  this  poor  girl  ?  Shall  1, 
who  have  a  handsomo  J'ortune,  and  additional  expectations 
to  make1  a  brilliant  alliance,  condescend  to  share  mv  wealth 
with  this  adopted  child  oi'  the  Grahams?  If  .she  were  one 
atom  less  charming,  1  would  disappoint  her,  after  all!  i 
wonder  how  slie'd  feel  if  J  should  marry  Kitty!  I  dare 
«uv  that  she  would  come  to  niy  \\edding.  bond  her  slender 
neck  as  gracefully  as  ever,  and  say.  '  (iimtl  cn-iting,  Mi\ 
Jinic(\'  as  calmly  as.  she  does  now.  every  time  1  go  to  the 
house!  Hut,  as  J//-.V.  JJr'itfc.  i  should  he  proud  of  that 
manner,  certainly,  i  wonder  how  J  ever  got  in  love  with 
her:  I'm  sure  J  don't  know.  She  ;sn'i  handsome;  mother 
thinks  she  isn't,  and  so  «!«'(>  Belie  Clinton.  Hut  Lieutenant 
Osborne  noticed  her  the  minute  she  came  into  the  room; 
and  Fan  raves  about  her  !>eauty.  I  don't  know  what  1 
think  myself :  1  believe  she's  bewitched  me.  so  that  J'm  not 
capable  of  judging  :  but.  it'  it  isn't  beauty,  it's  something' 
more  than  mere  good  looks." 

About  this  time,  Mrs.  Craham  and  ^\Irs.  J>ruce,  with 
their  families,  received  cartis  for  a  Icrec  at  the  house  of  an 
acquaintance  the  miles  distant.  31  n-.  iirure,  who  had  a 
close  carriage,  invited  both  the  rous'iis  logo  ;  and.  as  Mr. 
(iraham's  eai'riage.  when  closed,  would  only  accommodate 
himself  and  lady,  the  propo.:,!]  was  acceded  to. 

The  prospect  of  a  gav  assemblv  1'evived  Isabel's  droop- 
ing s]»irits.  Her  rich  evening  dresses  were  brought  out, 
and  she  stood  before  her  mirror,  and  tied  on  first  one 
wreath,  and  then  another,  and  looked  so  beautiful  in  each 
that  it  was  diiTicuit  to  choose.  Kitty,  who  stood  by,  went 
to  consult  (iert  rude. 

"'  Gertrude.'' said  Kit.tv.  "  what  shall  1  wear  this  evening: 
I've  been  trying  to  get  IScllc  to  tell  me,  but  she  never  will 
hear  what  I  ask  her.  when  she's  thinking  about  her  own 
dress  !  She's  dreadfully  selfish." 

"  Who  advises  her  /  "  asked  ( iert  i  ude. 

''Oil.  nobodv  :  she  always  decides  for  herself;  but  th'-n 
she  has  so  much  taitc.  and  I  ha\i  n't  the  least:  in  the 
world  !  So  do  tell  me.  (iertrude,  \\hal  had  I  better  \vcar 
to-n  ight  ?  " 

"I'm  the  last  per.-on  YOU  should  a.-k,  Kitty:  1  never 
went  to  a,  fashionable  party  in  my  life/'' 


210  Tin-:  LAuri. 

•'That  doesn't  make  any  difference.  I'm  sure  if  you  did 
£o,  you'd  look  hotter  th;in  any  of  us;  ami  I'm  not  afraid 
to  trust  to  your  opinion,  for  I  never  in  mv  life  saw  YOU  wear 
anything  that  didn't  look  genteel  —  even  your  gingham 
morning-gown  has  a  sort  of  stylish  air." 

"Stop,  stop.  Kittv;  you  are  going  too  far;  you  must 
keep  within  hounds  if  YOU  want  me  to  helieve  YOU.'' 

"  Well  then,"  said  K  it  t  v. '*'  to  say  not  liing  of  yourself  (for 
you're  superior  to  (lattiTy,  Gertrude — xonuhodij  told  me  so) 
— who  furnishes  Miss  Emily's  \uu'drobe?  Who  selects  her 
dresses  ?'" 

*'  I  have  done  so  lately,  hut 

"I  thought  so  !— I  thought  so  !"  interrupted  Kitty.  "I 
knew  poor  Miss  Emily  was  indebted  to  you  for  always  look- 
ing so  niee  and  so  heaut il'ul." 

"No.  indeed.  Kitty,  you  are  mistaken  ;  I  have  nevor 
seen  Emily  hetter  dressed  than  she  was  the  first  time  1  met 
her  ;  and  her  beauty  is  not  horrowed  from  art — it  is  all  her 
own." 

'•  Oh,  I  know  she  is  lovely,  and  everyhody  admires  her  : 
hut  no  one  ran  suppose  she  would  take  pains  to  wear  sn"h 
prettv  things,  and  put  them  on  so  irracefullv,  just  to  ple'iso 
herself." 

'•  It  is  not  done  UK  rely  to  pleas*1  herself  ;  it  was  to  please 
her  father  that  Emily  first  made  the  exertion  to  dress  with 
taste  as  "well  as  neatness.  I  have  heard  that,  for  some  time 
after  she  lost  her  eyesight,  she  was  disposed  to  he  very 
careless  :  hut,  having  accidentally  diseovered  that  it  was  an 
additional  cause  of  sorrow  to  him,  she  roused  herself  at 
once,  and.  with  Mrs.  Klhs's  assistance,  contrived  always 
afterwards  to  please  him  in  t  hat  particular.  Hut  YOU  observe, 
Kitty,  she  n  ver  wen;1-  anything  .-howy  or  conspicuous." 

"  No,  indeed,  that  is  what  I  like  ;  hut,  Gertrude,  hasn't 
she  always  been  blind  ?  " 

"  No  ;  until  she  was  sixteen  she  had  beautiful  eves,  and. 
could  see  as  well  as  you  can."'' 

"What  happened  to  her?     Uow  did  she  lose  them?" 

"  1  don't  know." 

"Didn't  you  ever  ask?" 

"  No." 

"  Why  not  ?-  -how  queer  !  " 

'•  1   heard  thai  -he  didn't  like  to  speak  of  it." 

"  Hut  .she  would  have  told  you  ;  ;:l>e  \vor~ships.  you..1* 


TH  K  T. .  1 . V7Y.  /  f '  ITTEK. 

"If  she  had  wished  me  to  know,  she  would  have  told 
without  my  asking." 

Kitty  stared  at  (iertrude,  wondering  much  at  such  un- 
usual delicacy  and  considerathm,  ami  instinctively  admir- 
ing a  forbearance  "f  which  she  was  conscious  she  should 
herself  have  been  incapable. 

"  Hut  your  dress  ! '"  said  (iertrude,  smiling  at  Kilty's  ab- 
straction. 

"Oh,  yes!     I   had   almost  forgotten   what   I   came  here1 
for."  said  Kitty.     "  What  shall  it  be.  then— thick  or  thin  ; 
pink.  blue,  or  white  ?  "' 

"'What  has  Isabel  decided  upon?'' 

"Blue— a,  rich  Kin*'  silk;  that  is  her  favourite  colour,  al- 
ways ;  but  it  doesn't  become  me." 

"No,  1  should  think  n<.t.,"  said  (iertrude;  "but  come, 
Kitty,  we  will  go  to  your  room  and  see  tiic  dresses,  and  I 
will  give  my  opinion.'" 

Kitty's  wardrobe  ha\b)!_r  been  inspected,  a  delicate  white 
crape  was  fixed  ui.on.  Ai:d  now  her  head -dre^es  did  net 
prove  satisfactory.  '•  I  cannot  uiar  any  of  them."  said 
Kitty;  '-they  look  so  mean  by  the  side  of  Isabel's;  but 
oh !"  exclaimed  she,  glaiu.'iiip;  at  a  box  which  lav  on  the 
dressing-table,  "these  are  just  what  I  should  like!  Oh, 
Isabel,  where  did  you  ^et  these  beautiful  cnrnat  ions  '?*'  and 
she  took  up  some  (lowers  which  were,  indeed,  a  rare;  imita- 
tion of  nature,  and,  displaying  them  to  (iertrude,  added 
that  they  were  just  wha;  she  wanted. 

"  Oh,"  Kitty,"  said  b-ibel,  angrily,  ''don't  touch  my 
dowers!  you  will  ,-poii  tliem  .''"and  snatching  them  from 
liei1,  sho  replaced  them  in  the  box,  and  deposited  them  in 
the  bureau,  and  locked  them  i;p--an  iietii  n  which  (ier- 
trude witnessed  with  astonishment,,  mingled  with  indigna- 
tion. 

"  Kitty,"  said  she,  "I  will  arrange  a  wreath  of  natural 
flowers  for  you.  if  you  wish." 

"  AVill  von,  Gertrude  ?'"  Said  tie  disappointed  and  pro- 
voked Kitty.  "Oh  thai  "ill  be  delight  fill.  I  should  like 
it  of  all  things!  And,  Isabel,  you  cr<>.-s  old  miser,  you  can 
keep  all  your  wreaths  to  yourself  !"' 

(iertrude  prepared  a  head-d.n  -<  for  Kiiiy:  and  lastefuliy 
mingled  the  choicest  prod:t"i  ons  of  th'1  garden,  that.  W!K  n 
Isabel  saw  her  (•'•!;-  n  look  -'•  beautiful  \\iih  it.  .-I  e  fell  a 
sharp  jning  of  jealousv  of  .Kittv  and  ui.-like  to  Ciei'lrmJe. 


212  THE  LAMrUGHTKll 

CLIAITF.K  XXXI. 

THK  I:::.M>;TK». 

EMTLYwasnot  well  this  evening.  It  was  often  the  c.iso, 
latclv,  that  headach",  weariness,  or  a  nervous  shrinking 
from  noise  ami  excitement  sent,  her  t<>  her  own  room  or  t<: 
her  couch  at,  an  eaiiv  hour.  \fier  Mrs  (Irahain  and  her 
nieces  had  gone  downstairs  to  a  watt  Mr.  ( <  raham's  pleasure, 
and  Mi's,  IJrncp's  arrival,  Her!  i  d<  returned  ><>  ivni! y,  and 
found  IHT  suiTerin'4'  more  ih.-iii  nsua!  from  her  head.  She, 
was  easily  nidmed  to  ,-eek  t/heoniy  infallible  cure-  sleep; 
and  fircrtrudo,  scat inu'  herseji'  <  r,  the.  heiUide,  as  she  was 
iVoqntiiitly  in  the  h.il'it  ol'  <i  in;:.  !»,,t!ied  her  teniples  liiitil 
she  fell  into  a  quiei,  .-1  !i  iiiii'M'.  i'!1.'1  uoisi!  of  Mrs.  Hruce's 
carriage  distni'lied  hei'  a  iill'.e:  oin  she  was  soon  in  so 
Round  a  sleep  that,  when  Mi-,  and  Mrs.  (iranam  departed, 
the  loud  voieo  of  the  latter  did  not.  startle  her  in  the  least, 
(tcrtrude  sat  some  time  longer  without  chanLrin^  her  posi- 
tion, then,  fjuielly  ri.-in^.  and  ayraniriii0;  eyefvlhini;-  for  tlm 
night,  accord  ing  to  Kmilv's  wishes,  she  clo.-ed  the  door, 
sought  it  book  in  her  own  room,  and,  entering  the  parlour, 
seated  herself  at  a  tal)lc  to  cnjov  the  I'are.  opportunity  for 
stillness  and  repose,  lint  s ho  soon  left  her  seat,  and  !_roiniT 
towards  the  pass  doors  and  h-min^  her  head  upon  her 
hands,  was  absorbed  in  meditation. 

She  had  not  lon^  sat  thii-  when  she  heard  a  footstep  in 
the  room.  and.  turning,  saw  Mr.  r>ni'-e  beside  her.  She 
stalled,  and  exclaimed,  "Mi1,  liruee  !  is  it  jiossiblc  ?  I 
thought  VoU  had  ifotie  to  the  \veiidiliLf." 

'"'  N'o,  there  were  greater  :it  tractions  for  me  at  home. 
Could  von  believe,  Mis<  (iertrude.  I  >hoiihl  find  any  pleas- 
ure in  a  party  which  did  not  include  voni'sHf  y  •"' 

"  I  certainlv  shoiihi  nut  have  the  vanity  to  suppose  the 
reverse  ?  "  r-'plied  ( lert  nidi  . 

"1  wish  you  had  a  little  more  vanit\.  M  iss  fj'ei'ti'ude. 
I'erhajis  then  you  w<i  ii  a!  I  a  i ." 

"  I  aril  irlad  Von  !nve  the  candoui1  !  o  a^!>  'Howled  <j(\  M  r. 
liriice,  t hat ,  '  '  •  •  ;ie.  o!n'  woald  lind  it 

imiKis.-ible  to  put  fait  ii  i 

"I  acknowledge,  n<>  oiiclj  i.i.i    ..      i  only  i-ay  to  you  what 


7777?  LAMPLKIUTES.  213 

any  ottier  girl  but  yourself  would  In-  willing  enotign  to  believe; 

but  how  shall  I  convince  you   that   i  am  serious,  and  wish 
to  he  so  understood  ?  " 

'•'By  addressing  me  \vitli  simple  truthfulness,  and  spur- 
ing  me  those  words  and  attentions  which  1  wish  to  convince 
you  are  unacceptable  to  mi1  and  unworthy  of  yourself." 

"But  I  have  a  meaning,  Gertrude,  a  c/eej)  meaning.  I 
have  been  trying  long  to  lind  an  opportunity  to  tell  you  of 
my  resolve,  and  you  •///>/*/  li.-ten  to  me  now;  "  for  he  saw  her 
change  colour  and  look  anxious  and  uneasy.  "You  must 
give  me  an  answer  at  or.ce.  and  one  that  will.  1  trust,  be 
favourable  to  my  wishes.  You  like  plain  speaking;  and  I 
will  be  plain  enough,  now  that  my  mind  is  made  up.  My 
relatives  and  friends  may  talk  and  wonder  as  much  as  they 
please  at  my  choosing  a  wife  \\ho  has  neither  money  nor 
family  to  boast  of;  but  ]  \\iil  dei'v  them  all, and  oiler  with, 
Out  hesitation  to  share  my  prospects  with  you.  "\\hatis 
money  good  for,  if  it  does  not  make  a  man  independent  to 
do  as  he  pleases  ?  And,  as  to  the  world,  I  don't  see  but 
that  you  can  hold  your  head  a>  high  as  anybody,  Gertrude; 
so,  if  you've  no  objection  to  make,  we'll  play  at  cross  pur- 
poses no  longer;  "  and  lie  endeavoured  to  lake  her  hand. 

But  Gertrude  drew  hack;  the  colour  iiushtd  her  cheeks, 
and  her  eves  gli.-tenol  a>  she  lixed  them  upon  his  fare  with 
an  expression  of  astonishment  and  pride.  The  penetrating 
look  of  those  dark  eyes  spoke  volumes,  and  Mr.  Bruce 
replied  to  their  inquiring  ga/.e  in  these  words:  "1  hope 
you  are  not  displeased  at  my  Iranknoss." 

"'  With  your  frankness."  said  (iertrude,  calmly;  "'no,  that 
is  a  thing  that  never  displeases   me.      Bui  what  I  have  un- 
pire   von  with   so  much  confidence, 
for   defying  the  wishes  of 
a  voice    in  the  matter?''' 

ot  hing."  said  Bruce  ;  "  hut  1  thought  you  hail  laboured, 
under  the  impression  that  1  was  disposed  to  trifle  with  vour 
affections,  and  had  therefore  kepi  al"of  and  maintained  a 
distance  towards  me  which  you  would  not  have  done  had 
YOU  known  1  was  in  earnest:  but.  bebeve  me.  1  only  ad- 
mired you  the  more  for  behaving"  with  so  much  dm'nitv, 
and  if  I  have  presumed  noon  your  favour,  von  nm.-t  forgixu 
me." 

The  expression  of  wounded  pride  vanished  from  Ger- 
trude's face.  "He  knows  no  beLicr,"  thought  she;  '  I 


214  T11F.    LA  .!//>/.  > 

should  pity  his  vanity  and  igiiorance,  and  sympathize  in  hia 
disappointment;  an,l.  in  disclaiming  with  a  positive-ness 

deception,  am  interest  in  Mr. 
id  acquaintance  and  well-wisher, 
her  icfusal  by  the  choice  of  the 
felt  gratitude  and  consideration 
were  due  to  the  man  u  ho,  however  l.ttle  she  mi^ht  esteem 
him,  had  paid  /,•('/•  the  highest  honour;  "  and,  though  her 
regret  in  thematic!1  was  tempered  by  the  thought  of  Kitty, 
and  the  strangeness  of  Mr.  Bruce's  conduct  towards  her, 
now  rendered  doubly  inexplicable,  she  did  not  permit  that 
reflection  to  prevent  her  from  maintaining  the  demeanour 
of  a  perfect  lady,  who,  in  giving  pain  to  another,  laments 
the  necessity  of  so  doin^.  But  she  almost  felt  as  if  her 
thought  fulness  for  his  feelings  had  been  thrown  away, 
when  she  perceived  the  spirit  in  which  he  received  her 
refusal. 

"'  (iertrude,'''  said  he,  "you  are  either  trilling  with  me  or 
yourself.  If  you  are  still  disposed  to  coquet  with  me,  I 
shall  not  humble  myself  to  urge  \ou  further;  but  if,  on  the 
other  hand,  you  are  so  far  forgetful  of  your  own  interests 
as  deliberately  to  refuse  such  a  fortune  as  mine,  I  think 
it's  a  pity  you  haven't  got  some  friend  to  advise  you.  Such 
a  chance  doesn't  occur  every  day,  especially  to  poor  school- 
mistresses; and  if  you  are  so  i'ooli.-h  as  to  overlook  it,  you'll 
never  have  another." 

(iertrude's  old  Icm/n'r  rose  at  this  insulting  language  ; 
but  her  feelings  had  been  too  long  under  strict  regulation 
to  vield,  and  she  replied  in  a  tone  which,  though  slightly 
agitated,  was  far  from  being  angrv,  "'Allowing  I  could  so 
far  forget  /;<//.-•'//',  Mr.  Bruce,  I  would  not  do  i/<ni  such  an 
injustice  as  to  marry  you  for  your  fortune.  1  do  not 
despise  wealth,  for  1  know  the  blessing  it  mav  often  be; 
but  my  affections  cannot  be  bought  with  gold;''  and  as  she 
spoke  she  moved  towards  the  door. 

"Stay!"  said  Mr.  Bruce,  catching  Inn1  hand;  "  listen  to 
me  mie  moment.;  let  me  ask  vou  one  question.  Are  you 
jealous  of  my  late  attentions  to  another;'" 

"  No,"  answered  (iertrude;  "but  1  confess  I  have  not 
u nderstood  vour  mot i ves.v 

••  Hid  vou  think, "asked  lie,  "that  I  rare  for  silly  Kitty  ? 
Hid  you  believe  that  1  had  any  other  d">iiv  than  to  show 
you  that  my  devotion  Wiw  acceptable  elsewhere-''  2s o,  J 


TllK  LAMl'r.KUirm.  '215 

never  had  the  least  partite  of  regard  fur  her;  my  heart  has 
been  yours  all  I  in;  tune,  and  1  <>nlv  danced  attendance  upon 
her,  in  hopes  to  win  a  glance  from  ///>/<—  a!u///.n'o//>-  glance, 
if  might  be.  (.)ii,  i  have  wished  that  von  would  show  onlv 
one  quarter  of  the  pleasure  that  she  did  in  mv  society; 
would  blush  and  smile  as  she  did;  would  look  sad  when  I 
was  dull,  and  laugh  when  1  was  merry;  so  that  I  might 
flatter  myself  that  vour  heart  was  won.  Hut  as  to  luring 
her, — pooh!  Mrs.  Graham's  poodle-dog  might  as  well  try 
to  rival  you  as  that  soft 

"Stop!  stop!'''  exclaimed  Gertrude  ;  '"for  itir/  sake,  if  not 
for  your  own!  Oh,  how—  She  could  say  no  more; 

but,  sinking  into  a  seat,  burst  into  tears,  and  hiding  her 
face  in  her  hands,  as  had  been  her  habit  in  childhood,  wept 
without  restraint. 

Mr.  Bruce  stood  by  in  utter  amazement;  at  last  he 
approached  her,  and  asked,  in  a  low  voice,  "'What  is  the 
matter?  what  'have  I  done;'" 

It  was  some  minutes  before  she  could  replv;  then,  lifting 
her  head,  and  tossing  the  hair  from  tier  forehead,  she  dis- 
played features  expressive  only  of  the  deeuest  grief,  and 
said,  in  broken  accents,  "  What  have  yon  done?  Oh,  how 
can  you  ask?  She  is  gentle,  and  amiable, and  affectionate. 
She  loves  everybody,  and  trusts  everybody.  You  have 
deceived  her,  and  /was  the  cause  of  it.  (  Hi.  how,  how  could 
you  do  it!" 

Ben  exclaimed.  "She  will  got  over  it."  ''Get  over  ti'lntt  !" 
said  Gertrude;  "  her  love  for  you?  Perhaps  so;  I  know  not 
how  deep  it  is.  But,  think  of  her  happy,  trusting  nature, 
and  how  it  has  been  betrayed!  Think  how  sin.-  believed 
your  flattering  words,  and  how  hollow  they  were,  all  the 
while!  Think  how  her  confidence  has  been  abused !  how 
that  fatherless  and  motherless  girl,  who  had  a  claim  to 
the  sympathy  of  all  the  world,  has  been  taught  a  lesson  of 
distrust," 

'•'I  didn't  think  yon  would  take  it  so/'7  said  lien. 

"  How  else  could  I  view  it  ?"  asked  (icrtrude;  "could  yon 
expect  that  such  a  course  would  win  my  respect  ? '' 

"You  take  it  verv  seriously,  Gertrude;  such  flirtations 
are  common.'' 

"Iain  sorrv  to  hear  it."  said  (icrirude.  ''To  my  mind, 
unversed  in  the  wavs  of  society,  ir  s  a  dreadful  thing  to 
Grille  thus  with  a  human  heart.  Whether  Kittv  loves  vou 


210  TitK  /;.  1.  1/7  Y.  //-7/y  •/•:/?. 

is  not  for  me  to  say;  but  \v!::it  opinion,  alas!  will  she  have 
of  your  sincerity  ?  " 

"  I  think  vou'rc  rather  hard.  Miss  'lertrude,  when  it  was 
inv  love  for  you  that  prompted  my  conduct/1 

"'Perhaps  I  am,"  said  (Jcrtuide.  '"  It  is  not  my  place  to 
censure;  1  speak  only  from  the  impulse  of  mv  heart.  OIK 
orphan  girl's  warm  defence  of  another  is  but  natural.  Per- 
haps she  views  the  tiling  lightly,  and  does  not  need  ai: 
advocate;  but.  oh,  Mr.  Bruce,  do  not  think  so  meanly  ot 
mv  sex  as  to  believe  that  one  woman's  heart  can  he  won  to 
love  and  reverence  by  the  author  of  another's  betrayal! 
She  were  less  than  woman  who  could  be  so  false  to  her  sense 
of  right  and  honour.  " 

"  Betrayal!  —  Nonsense!  yon  are  verv  high-flown." 

"So  much  so,  .Mr.  Bruce,  that  hali'-an-hour  ago  I  could 
have  wept  that  you  should  have  bestowed  your  affection 
where  it  met  with  no  requital;  and  if  now  1  wept  for  the 
sake  of  her  whose  ears  have  listened  to  false  professions, 
and  whose  peace  has.  to  say  the  least,  been  thredfened  on 
my  account,  you  should  attribute  it  to  the  fact  that  my 
sympathies  have  not  been  exhausted  by  contact  with  the 
world." 

A  short  silence  ensued.  Ben  wnt  a  step  or  two  towards 
the  door,  then  stopped,  came  back,  and  said,  "After  all, 
(lertrude  Flint,  I  believe  the  time  will  come  when  your 
notions  will  grow  less  romantic,  and  vou  will  look  back  to 
this  night  and  wi-h  you  h::d  acted  differently.''  lie 
immediately  left  the  room,  ami  (Ji-rtrude  heard  him  shut 
the  hall-dour  with  a  banir. 

A  moment  after  the  silence  that  ensued  was  disturbed  by 


the  window. 

the  .-pot,  hea 

there,  upon  the  window-seat,  her  head  buried  in  the 
cushions,  and  her  little  slender  form  distorted  intoastrange 
attitude,  sat,  or  rather  crouched,  poor  Kitty  Ifav. 

"Kitty!'"  cried  (iertnide.  At  the  sound  of  her  voice 
Kittv  sprung  suddenly  from  her  recumbent  posture,  threw 
her.-elf  into  I  iert  i  aide's  arms,  laid  her  head  upon  her 
shoulder,  and  though  she  di'i  not.  rimld  not  weep,  shook 
an  ;i'_rita1  01  unci  ;  t  rolhih'.e.  !  ler  liand  whieh  grasped 
ude's  was  cold  ;  her  evs  fi.xeii;  and  at  intervals  the 

t    tirst   betrayed   her  in 


THE  LAMPLTdHTEPi.  217 

her  hiding-place  fi.1  armed  her  younir  protector,  to  whom 
she  clung.  Gertriule  supported  her  to  a  seat,  and  then, 
folding  the  slight  form  to  her  bosom,  chafed  the  cold 
hands,  and  again  and  again  kissing  the  rigid  lips,  succeeded 
in  restoring  her  to  something  like  composure.  For  an 
hour  she  lay  thus,  receiving  Gertrude's  caresses  with 
evident  pleasure,  and  now  and  then  returning  them  con- 
vulsively, but  speaking  no  word  and  making  no  noise. 
Gertrude,  with  the  truest  delicacy,  refrained  from  asking 
questions,  or  recurring  to  a  conversation,  the  whole  of 
which  had  been  thus  overheard  and  comprehended;  but, 
patiently  waiting  until  Kitty  grew  more  calm,  prepared  for 
her  a  soothing  draught;  Jind  then,  tinding  her  completely 
prostrated,  both  in  mind  and  bodv,  parsed  her  arm  around 
her  waist,  guided  her  upstairs,  and  took  her  into  her  own 
room,  where,  if  she  proved  wakeful,  she  would  be  spared 
the  scrutiny  of  Isabel.  Still  clinging  to  (iertrude,  the  poor 
girl,  to  whose  relief  tears  came  at  last,  sobbed  herself  to 
sleep.  Gertrude,  though  nearly  the  same  age  as  Kitty, 
had  seen  too  much  trouble  to  enjoy  in  times  of  disquiet  the 
privilege  of  sinking  easily  to  repose.  She  felt  under  the 
necessity,  too,  of  remaining  awake  until  Isabel's  return, 
that  she  might  inform  her  what  had  become  of  Kitty, 
whom  she  would  be  sure  to  miss  from  the  room  which  they 
both  occupied.  It  was  past  midnight  when  Mrs.  Graham 
and  her  niece  returned  home,  and  Gertrude  went  imme- 
diately to  inform  the  latter  that  her  cousin  was  asleep  in 
her  room.  The  noise  of  the  carriage,  however,  had  awak- 
ened the  sleeper,  and  when  (iertrude  returned  she  \vas; 
rubbing  her  eyes,  ami  trying  to  collect  her  thoughts.  Sud- 
denly the  recollection  of  the  scene  of  the  evening  lla.-hed 
upon  her,  and  with  a  deep  siii'h  she  exclaimed,  •'  (Mi.  ( ier- 
trude, J  have  been  d  reaming  of  Mr.  P>ruce  !  Should  you 
have  thought  he  would  have  treated  me  so ':  " 

"  Xo,  I    should    not."  said    (iertrude;   "1)111 
dream  about  him,  Kittv.  nor  think   of  him    an\ 
will  both   go  to  sleep  and    forget  him." 

"It    is   different  with    you, "said    Kitty,  with 
"lie  loves  vou,  and  vou  do  not  care  for  linn  :  but 


(iertrude  approached,   laid     her    hand     kindly    upon    the 
head   of   the   poor  girl,  and   liuished    the   sentence  for   her. 


218  Tilt:   /.A  VPL 

"  You  have  such  ;i  large  heart,  Kitty,  that  he  found  some 
place  there,  perhaps;  hut  it  is  too  good  a  heart  to  he  shared 
by  the  mean  and  hase.  You  must  think  no  more  of 
him — he  is  not  worthy  of  your  regard.'' 

"I  can't  help  it,"  said  Kitty;  "I  am  silly,  just  as  he 
said." 

"  Xo,  you  are  not,"  said  Gertrude,  encouragingly;  "and 
you  must  prove  it  to  him." 

« iiow  ? " 

'•  Let  him  see  that,  with  all  her  softness,  Kitty  Ray  is 
hrave;  that  she  believes  not  his  flattery,  and  values  his  pro- 
fessions at  just  what  they  are  worth.'' 

"  Will  you  help  me,  Gertrude?  You  are  my  hest  friend; 
you  took  my  part,  and  told  him  how  wicked  he  had  been 
to  me.  May  1  come  to  you  for  comfort  when  I  can't  make 
believe  happy  anv  longer  to  him,  and  my  aunt,  and 
Isabel?" 

(iertrude's  fervent  embrace  assured  her. 

"  You  will  be  as  bright  and  as  happy  as  ever  in  a  few 
weeks,"  said  she;  u  you  will  soon  cease  to  care  fora  person 
whom  you  no  longer  respect." 

Kitty  disclaimed  the  possibility  of  ever  being  happy 
again  ;  but  Gertrude  was  more  hopeful.  She  saw  that 
Kilty's  outburst  of  sobs  and  tears  was  like  an  impetuous 
grief,  hut  that  the  deepest  recesses  of  her  nature  were  safe. 
She  felt  a  deep  compassion  for  her,  and  mauv  fears  lest  she 
would  want  sufficient  strength  of  mind  to  behave  with  dig- 
nity ai:d  womanly  pride  in  her  future  intercourse  with  -Mr. 
Bruce. 

Fortunately,  the  trial  was  spared  her  by  Mr.  Bruce's 
absenting  himself  from  the  house,  and  in  a  few  days  leav- 
ing home  for  the  remainder  of  the  summer  ;  and,  as  this 
y  •ircumstance  involved  his  own  and  Mrs.  Graham's  family 
'in  wonder  as  to  the  cause  of  his  sudden  departure,  Kitty's 
trials  were  in  the  perpetual  questionings  from  her  aunt  and 
cousin  as  to  her  share  in  this  occurrence.  Had  she  quar- 
relled with  him? — and  why?  Kitty  denied  that  she  had; 
but  she  was  not  believed. 

Mrs.  Graham  and  Isabel  were  aware  that  Kitty'.-:  refus- 
ing at  the  last  moment  to  attend  the  wedding /rrtV  was 
owing  to  her  having  learned,  just  before  the  carriage  drove 
to  the  door,  that  Mr.  Bruce  was  not  to  be  one  of  the  party; 
and,  as  they  got  her  to  confess  that  he  had  passed  u  part  of 


THE  LAMt-l.niiLTtft.  219 

the  evening  at  the  house,  they  carnc  to  the  conclusion  that 
sonic  misunderstanding  had  arisen  between  ti.o  lovers. 

Isabel  vva.s  too  well  acquainted  with  KiUy's  sentiments  to 
believe  she  had  voluntarily  relinquished  an  admirer  why 
had  evidently  been  highly  prized  ;  and  she  also  saw  thai  the 
sensitive  girl  winced  under  every  .Allusion  to  fche  deserter. 
Where  washer  affection  r"  i'or  she  made  iVlr.  Bruce  and  his 
disappearance  her  constant  conic;  and,  en  the  slightest 
difference  between  herself  and  Kitty,  she  ciistiesfced  the 
latter  by  cutting  sarcasm  reiathe  TO  her  late  love-affair. 
Kitty  would  then  seek  refuge  v\ith  Gertrude,  and  claim  her 
sympathy;  and  she  not  only  found  in  her  a  friendly  listener 
to  her  woes,  but  invariably  acquired  in  her  society  greater 
strength  and  cheerfulness  than  -ho  could  elsewhere  rally 
to  her  aid. 

Many  a  time,,  when  Isabel  had  been  tantalising  Kitty 
beyond  what  her  patience  could  endiiie,  a  little  iigure  would 
present  itself  at  the  door  of  Miss  Graham's  room,  and  with 
the  sweetest  of  voices  sav,  ".'.hear  you,  Kitty;  come  in, 
jny  dear;  we  shall  be  glad  ot  your  pleasant  company;  '•*  and 
seated  by  the  side  of  Gertrude,  learning  from  her  some 
little  art  in  needlework,  listening  to  an  agreeable  book,  or 
Emily's  more  agreeable  conversation,  Kitty  passed  hours 
which  were  never  forgo'.ten,  so  peaceful  were  they,  so 
serene,  so  totallv  unlike  auv  she  had  ever  spent  before. 

None  could  Jive  in  familiar  intercourse  with  Emily,  lis- 
ten to  her  words,  observe  the  radiance  of  her  heavenly 
smile,  and  breathe  in  the  pure  atmosphere  that  environed 
her  very  being,  and  not  carry  away  with  them  the  lore  of 
virtue  and  holiness,  if  not  something  ot  thoir  exti'ticc.  She 
was  so  unselfish,  so  patient,  notwithstanding  her  privations, 
that  Kitty  would  have  been  ashamed  to  repine  in  her  pres- 
ence; and  there  was  a  contagious  eiicerfuiness  e\er  pe:1 
vading  her  apartment,  which,  in  spite  of  Kittys  recvni, 
cause  of  unhappiness,  often  led  her  to  forget  herself,  anC 
break  into  her  natural  tone  of  buoyancy  and  gieo. 


220  THK  LAMTUUIITKR. 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 

ENVY,     HATRED,    AND    MALICE. 

LITTLE  did  (iertrude  imagine,  while  she  was  striving  to 
promote  the  welfare  of  Kitly,  who  had  thrown  herself 
upon  her  love  ;uid  care,  the  jealousy  and  ill-will  she  was 
exciting  in  others.  Isahel,  who  had  never  liked  one  whose 
tone,  of  action  ami  life  reproached  her  own  vanity  and  self- 
ishness, and  who  saw  in  her  the  additional  crime  of  being 
the  favoured  friend  of  a  youth  of  whose  interesting  boy- 
hood she  herself  retained  a  sentimental  recollection,  was 
eager  to  render  her  odious  to  .Mrs.  (Iraham.  She  was  not 
slow  to  observe  the  confidence  that  existed  between  Kitty 
and  Gertrude;  that  her  cousin  had  for.-aken  her  own  room 
for  that  of  the  latter  the  night-  after  her  probable  quarrel 
and  parting  with  Bruce:  and  her  resentment,  excited  still 
further  by  the  growing  friendship  which  her  own  unkind- 
ness  to  Kittv  served  onlv  to  confirm,  .-he  communicated  to 
Mrs.  (Jraham  her  suspicion  that  d'ertrude  had  selfishly 
made  a  difficulty  between  Bruce  and  Kittv.  and  fostered 
and  widened  the  breach,  and  succeeded  in  breaking  oil'  the 
match.  .Mrs.  (iraham  readilv  adopted  Belle's  opinion. 
"Kitty,"  said  she.  "  is  weak-minded,  and  much  under  Miss 
Flint's  influence.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  you  were 
right.  Belle  !" 

Thus  they  tried  to  entrap  Kittv  into  a  confession  that 
Cert  rude  had  driven  awav  her  lover.  But  Kitt  v.  while  she 
indignantly  denied  (Jertriide's  having  injured  her.  refused 
to  reveal  the  occurrences  of  the  eventful  evening.  Mrs. 
(iraham  and  Belie  were  angrv.  and  manv  were  their  pri- 
vate  discussions  on  the  subject.  ;md  a-  they  became  more 
and  more  incensed  again-t  (lertrude,  so  they  began  to 
ma nifest  it  in  tiicii1  demeanoui1. 

(iertrude  soon  perceived  theii1  incivility.  With  wonder- 
ful patience,  however,  d;d  she  preserve  her  equanimity. 
Sip-  had  never  looked  for  kiiidnes-  and  attention  from 
M  i's.  ( J  raham  and  Isabel.  Th"\"  we  re  i  rn  lat  ed  by  h(>i'  calm- 
ness and  patience,  now  made  their  attack  in  another  quar- 
ter ;  and  Emily,  the  sweet,  lovely,  and  unoiTciiding  Kmily, 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  22  \ 

became  the  object  against  winch  they  aimed  many  of  their 
shafts  of  ill-will. 

Gertrude  could  hear  injury,  injustice,  and  even  cruel 
language,  towards  herself  only;  hut  her  hlood  hoiled  when 
she  perceived  that  her  cherished  Kmilv  was  becoming  the 
victim  of  neglect  and  ill-usage.  To  address  the  gentle  Kiuily 
in  oilier  words  than  those  of  courtesy  was  next  to  impossi- 
ble :  it  was  equally  hard  to  find  fault  with  t  he  actions  of  one 
whose  life  was  so  good  ;md  beautiful;  and  the  isolated 
position  which  she  occupied  on  account  of  her  blindness 
seemed  to  render  her  free  from  interference.  I'.ul  Mrs. 
Graham  was  coarse,  and  blunt.  Isabel  selfish  and  unfeeling: 
and  long  before  the  blind  girl  was  aware  of  auv  unkind 
intention  on  their  part,  Gertrude'*?  spirit,  had  rebelled  at 
the  knowledge  of  many  a  word  and  act  well  calculated  to 
distress  a  sensitive  mind.  Many  a  stroke  was  warded  off 
by  Gertrude;  many  a  nearly  defeated  plan,  which  Kmilv 
was  known  to  have  had  at  hear!,  carried  through  bvder- 
t  rude's  perseverance  and  energv:  and  for  some  weeks 
Kmilv  was  kept  ignorant  of  the  fact,  that  manv  a  little 
oHiee  formerly  performed  for  her  by  a  servant  was  now  ful- 
filled bv  Gertrude,  who  would  not  let  her  know  that  Bridget 
had  received  from  her  mistress  orders  which  were  (juiie 
inconsistent  with  her  usual  attendance  upon  Miss  Graham's 
wan  ts. 

Mr.  Graham  was  absent  on  business  at  New  York.  His 
presence  would  have  been  a  great,  restraint  upon  his  wife, 
who  was  well  aware  of  his  devoted  affection  for  Ins  daugh- 
ter. His  love  for  Kmily,  arid  the  devotion  manifested 
towards  her  bv  everv  member  of  t  he  household,  had  rendered 
her  an  object  of  jealousy  to  Mrs.  Graham. 

Shortly  before  Mr.  Graham's  return,  Mrs.  Graham  and 
Isabel  were  indulging  themselves  in  an  unlimited  abuse  "1 
the  rest  of  the  household,  when  a  letter  was  brought  1< 
Mrs.  Graham,  which  proved  to  b-j  from  her  husband.  Aftei 
glancing  over  its  contents,  she  remarked,  with  an  air  ot 
satisfaction,  ''Here  is  good  news  for  :;.  .  Isabel,  and  a  pros- 
pect of  some  pleasure  in  the  world."  And  she  read  aloud 
the  following— "  The  troublesome  affair  which  call 
here  is  nearly  settled,  and  Hie  result  i-  very  favoura 
my  wishes  and  plans  I  now  see  nothing  t<>  pivve 
starting  for  Europe  the  latter  part  <>f  next  month.  a 
girls  must  make  their  arrangement.-  aet.ordingiy. 


2l>2  THK   r.AMl'UGHTER. 

Emily  to  spare  nothing  towards  a  full  and  complete  equip 
incut  for  herself  and  Gertrude/' 

"He  speaks  of  (  lertrude,"  said  Isabel,  sneeringlv,  "as 
if  she  were  one  of  the  family.  I'm  sure  I  don't  see  any 
very  great  prospect  of  pleasure  in  travelling  all  through 
.Kuropc  with  a  blind  woman,  and  her  disagreeable  append- 
ages ;  I  can't  think  what  Mr.  Graham  wants  to  take  them 
for." 

"  I  wish  he  would  leave  them  at  home,"  said  Mrs.  Gra- 
ham; "it  would  be  a  good  punishment  for  Gertrude.  Hut, 
mcrcv!  lie  would  as  soon  think  of  going  without  his  right 
hand  as  without  Kmily/' 

"I  hope,  if  ever  I'm  married/'  exclaimed  Isabel,  "it 
won't  be  to  a  man  that's  got  a  blind  daughter!  Sm  h  a 
dreadful  good  person,  too,  whom  everybody  has  got  to  wor- 
ship. and  admire,  and  wait  upon!  " 

"I  don't  have  to  wait  upon  her."  said  Mrs.  Graham; 
"that's  Gertrude's  business—  -it's  what  she's  going  for/' 

•'That's  the  worst  of  it;  a  blind  girl  has  to  have  a  wait- 
ing-maid. and  a  waiting-maid  is  a  great  lady,  who  doesn't 
mind  cheating  your  nieces  out  of  their  lovers,  and  even 
robbing  them  of  each  other's  affection." 

••  Well,  what  can  I  do.  Belie?  I'm  sure  1  don't  want 
Gert  rude's  companv  an  v  more  than  yon  do  ;  but  I  don't  see 
how  L  can  get  rid  of  her." 

"  I  should  think  you'd  tell  Mr.  Graham  some  of  the  harm 
she's  done  already.  If  you  have  any  influence  over  him, 
you  might  prevent  her  going." 

"It  would  be  no  more  than  she  deserves,"  said  Mrs. 
Graham:  "and  I  mav  inve  him  a  hint  of  her  behaviour; 
he'll  be  surprised  enough  when  he  hears  of  Bruce's  sudden 
flight.  I  knew  he  thought  it  would  be  a  match  between 
him  and  Kit  tv.  " 

As  Isabel  de-vended  the  staircase,  to  meet  with  smiles 
and  compliments  the  guests  whom  in  her  heart  she  wished 
a  thousand  mdes  awav  on  thi>  intensely  hot  afternoon, 
Gertrude  came  up  from  the  kitchen,  and  passed  along  it 
m.  Sh"  earned,  over  one  arm.  a. 


long  breath,  as  if    fatigued,  seated   herself  by  a  window, 


TJJK  LAMPLIGHTER.  223 

brushed  tin1  liair  back  from  lier  face,  and  threw  open  u 
blind.  Just  then  .Mrs.  Prime  put  her  head  in  at  the  door; 
and.  seeing  Gertrude  alone,  entered  the  room,  but  stood  in 
astonishment  on  observing  the  evidences  of  her  recent 
laborious  employment;  then,  glancing  at  the  fruits  of  her 
diligence,  she  burst  forth  indignantly,  "Mvsakcs  alive! 
Miss  Gertrude.  I  believe  you've  beendoiif  up  them  musiins 
yourself,  after  all !  " 

Gertrude  smiled,  but  did  not  replv. 

" '  Xo\v,  if  that  ain't  too  bad!"  said  the  kind-hearted 
woman:  <l  to  think  you  should  ha'  been  at  work  down  in 
that  'ere  hot  kitchen,  and  ail  the  rest  on  us  takiir'  a  spell  <>' 
rest  in  the  heat  of  the  day.  I'll  warrant  if  Miss  Emily 
knew  it,  she'd  never  put  on  that  white  gown!  " 

"  It  hardly  looks  //'/  for  her  to  wear,"  said  Gertrude. 
"I'm  not  much  used  to  ironing,  and  have  had  a  great  deal 
of  trouble  with  it;  one  side  got  dry  before  I  could  smooth 
out  the  other.'" 

"It  looks  elegant.  Miss  Gertrude;  but  what  should  vou 
be  doin'  Bridget's  work  for,  I  want  to  know?" 

"  Bridget  always  has  enough  to  do/'  said  Gertrude,  evad- 
ing a  direct  answer;  ''and  it's  very  well  for  me  to  have 
^ome  practice;  knowledge  never  comes  amiss,  vou  know, 
Mrs.  Prime." 

"  'Taut  no  kind    of  an  afternoon   for  'speriment  o"  that 
sort;  and  vou  wouldn't    ha'  done  it,    I'll   venture   to  sav,  if 
you  hadn't  been  afeard  Miss  Kmiiv  would  want  her  things, 
and  find  out  they  wan't  done.      Times  is  changed   in   this 
house,  when    Mr.   Graham's  own   daughter,  that  was    once 
the  head  of  everything,   has   to  have  her  clothes  laid  by  to 
make  room  for  other  folks.      Bridget  ought  to  know  better 
than  to  mind  these  npstarters.  when  they  tell  her,  as  I  heard 
Miss  Graham  vesterdav,  to   let  alone  that    heap  o'  mn.-iins, 
and  attend  to  some!  h ing  that  was  o'  more  eon.-e<jiienee.    Out 
Katv  would  ha'  known  better  ;   but  Bridget's  a   new-co 
like  all    the   rest.      Think,-;    1     [o   mvself    then,  \\hat   w 
Miss  Gei'trude  sav.  if  she  suspected    how    Miss    Kmilv 
bein'  negh'eted  !      But    I'll   /'•//    Mi.-s    Kmilv.  a.-   sure   a 
name's  Prime,   just    hou    things   go      \nu    -han't  ii<-{    so 
in  the  face  ui;h  ironing  ag.n,  M  s.-  Gertrude.      If   tin- 
o'  frocks  she  likes  to  wear  can't    oe  d<iiie   up  a!   home 
yourn  too.  what's  more— the    wa>hin'  ought    to   lie  put 
There's  mone    enough,  and  .-on;e   of   it  ought   to  be 


2:U  7777s'  LAMPLIGHTER. 

for  the  use  o'  the  ladies  as  is  ladies  !  T  wish  to  heart  thai 
Isabella  would  have  to  start  round  a  little  lively;  'twould 
do  her  good;  but.  Lor',  Miss  ( icrt  rude,  it  goes  right  to  mv 
heart  to  see  all  the  vexatious  things  as  is  happeniir'  nowa- 
days! I'll  go  right  to  Miss  Kmily  tins  minute,  and  tell  how 
things  go  on." 

"  No,  you  won't,  Mrs.  Prime,"  said  Gertrude,  persua- 
sively; "when  I  ask  you  not.  You  forget  how  unhappy  it 
would  make  her,  if  she  knew  that  Mrs.  (iraham  was  so 
wanting  in  consideration.  I  would  rather  iron  dresses 
everyday,  or  do  anything  else  for  our  dear  Miss  Kmily,  than 
let  her  sitxjtcrt  even  that  anybody  could  willingly  he  unkind 
to  her." 

Mrs.  Prime  hesitated.  "  Mi<s  Gertrude.  I  thought  I 
loved  our  dear  young  ladvas  well  as  anybody,  but  I  believe 
>ve  her  better  still,  to  be  so  thoughtful  all  for  her 
and  I  wouldn't,  say  nothing  about  it.  only  I  think  a 
o.'  //»/>,  too;  you've  been  here  ever  since  you  was  a 
little  gal,  and  we  all  set  lots  by  you,  and  I  can't  see  them 
folks  ride  over  your  head,  as  I  know  they  mean  to.'' 

•'I  know  you  love  me.  Mrs.  Prime,  and  Kmilv  too;  so, 
for  the  sake  of  us  both,  you  mustn't  say  a  word  to  anybody 
about  the  change  in  the  family  arrangements.  We'll  all 
do  what  we  can  to  keep  Kmily  from  pain;  and,  as  to  the 
rest,  we  won't  care  for  ourselves;  if  they  don't  pet  and 
indulge  me  as  much  as  I  have  been  accustomed  to,  the 
easiest  way  is  not  to  notice  it." 

"Lord  bless  yer  heart.  Miss  (Jertrude.  ihem  folks  is 
lucky  to  have  you  to  deal  with:  it  isn't  everybody  as  would 
put  up  with 'em.  They  don't  come  much  in  my  way,  thank 
fortin  !  I  let  Miss  (Iraham  see.  n^lit  otT.  that  I  wouldn't 
put  up  with  interference;  cooks  is  privileged  to  set  up  for 
their  rights,  and  I  scared  her  out  o'  mv  premises  pretty 
'(nick,  I  tell  yer!  It's  mighty  hard  for  me  to  see  our  own 
ladle-  imposed  upon;  but,  since  you  say  '  mum,'  Miss  (ier- 
trude,  I'll  try  and  hold  my  tongue  as  long  as  I  can.  It's  a 
shame,  t  houu'h.  I  do  decia re. 

Aii  hour  after,  (Jertrudi1  was  at  the  glass,  braid  ing  her 
loiiL1  hair,  \\hi-n  Mrs.  Kills,  after  a  .-light  knock,  entered. 
"  Well,  (Jt-rtrude."  said  she,  "  1  didn't  think  it  would  come- 
to  t,h  >!  " 

••Why,  what  is  the  matter?''  inquired  Gertrude,  anx- 
iously. 


THE  LA 

"It  seems  we  are  going  to  be  turned  out  of  our  rooms'  ': 
'Who?'' 

"  You,  and  I  next,  for  ought  I  know.'' 

Gertrude  coloured,  but  did  not  speak,  and  Mrs.  Ellis 
related  that  she  hud  received  orders  to  fit  up  Gertrude's 
room  for  some  visitors  who  were  expected.  Si.e  was  aston- 
ished to  hear  that  Gertrude  had  not  been  consulted  on  the 
subject.  Mrs.  Graham  had  spoken  so  carelessly  of  her 
removal,  and  seemed  to  think  it  so  agreeable  for  Kmilv  to 
share  her  apartment  with  her  young  friend,  that  Mrs.  Ellis 
concluded  the  matter  had  been  pre-arranged. 

Deeply  wounded  and  vexed  on  her  own  and  Emily's  ac- 
count, Gertrude  stood  1'or  a  moment  silent.  She  then 
asked  if  Mrs.  Ellis  hud  spoken  to  Emily  on  the  subject. 
She  had  not.  Gertrude  begged  her  to  say  nothing  about 
it. 

"  I  cannot  bear,5'  said  she,  '•'  to  let  her  know  that  the 
little  sanctum  she  fitted  up  so  carefully  has  been  uncere- 
moniously taken  from  me  \  sleep  in  her  room  more  than 
half  the  time,  as  you  know;  but  she  always  likes  to  have 
me  call  this  chamber  mine,  that  1  may  be  sure  of  a  place 
where  I  can  read  and  study. 
bureau  into  your  room,  Mr 
there  occasionally,  we  need 
Emily." 

Mrs.  Ellis  assented.  Sin1  hud  grown  strangely  humble 
and  compliant  within  a  few  months,  and  Gertrude  had  won 
her  good-will,  first  by  forbearance,  and  latterly  by  the  fre- 
quent assistance  she  had  rendered  to  the  overburdened 
housekeeper.  .Hut,  though  yielding  and  considerate 
towards  Gertrude,  whom,  with  Kmilv  and  Mrs.  Prime,  she 
now  considered  members  of  the  injured  party  to  whieh  she 
herself  belonged,  no  words  eould  express  her  indignation 
with  regard  to  the  late  conduct  of  Mrs.  Graham  and  Isabel. 
"  It  is  all  of  a  piece,"  said  she,  "  with  the  re 
duct!  Sometimes  I  almost  feel  thankful 
blind;  it  would  grieve  her  to  see'  the 
have  liked  to  box  Isabella's  ears  for  tal 
table  so  impudently  as  she  did  vestei 
ing  to  help  Kmilv  to  anything  at  ; 
Emily,  angel  as  she  is!  ail  unconseioi 
haviour,  and  asking  her  for  butler  a,- 
by  mere  accident  that  you  hud  been  driven  i'n 


2  2  f)  '  77/7-:   /. .  1  Ml  'A  / ( 1  fTTER 

and  she  loft  to  provide  for  herself.  And  all  those  strangers 
there.  Too!  J  saw  it  all  from  the  ehina-closet!  And  then 
Emily's  dresses  and  muslins! — there  they  laid  in  the  press- 
•i rawer,  till  I  thought  they  would  mildew.  I'm  glad  to  see 
Bridget  has  been  allowed  to  do  them  at  last,  for  1  began  to 
think  Emily  would,  one  of  these  warm  days,  hi;  without  a 
elean  gown  in  the  world.  But  all  I  wish  is,  that  they'd  all 
go  off  to  Europe,  and  leave  us  here  to  ourselves.  You  don't 
want  to  go.  do  you,  Gertrude?" 

"  Yes.  if  Emily  goes." 

"Well,  you're  better  than  I  am:  I  couldn't  make  such  a 
martvr  of  myself  even  for  her  sake.''' 

It  is  needless  to  detail  the  many  petty  annoyanees  to 
which  Gertrude  was  daily  subjected:  nor  with  all  the  pains 
taken  to  prevent  it,  could  Emily  be  long  kept  in  ignorance 
of  the  liu'ht  estimation  in  which  both,  herself  and  Gertrude 
were  regarded.  Kittv,  incensed  at  the  incivility  of  her 
aunt  and  Isabel,  and  indifferent  towards  the  visitors,  hesi- 
tated not  to  express  both  to  Emily  and  Gertrude  her  sense 
of  the  injuries  they  sustained.  Hut  Kitty  was  no  formida- 
ble antagonist  to  Mrs.  Graham  and  Belle,  for  her  spirit? 
were  greatly  subdued,  and  she  no  longer  dared,  as  she 
would  once  have  done,  to  stand  between  her  friends  and  the 
indignities  to  which  they  were  exposed. 

But  Mrs.  Graham  became  at  last  entangled  in  difficulties 
of  her  own  weaving.  Her  husband  returned,  and  it  now 
became  necessary  to  set  bounds  to  her  own  insolence,  and, 
what  was  far  more  difficult,  to  that  of  Isabel.  Mrs.  Graham 
knew  just  how  far  her  husband's  forbearance  would  extend 
— just  the  point  to  which  his  perceptions  might  be  blinded. 
But  in  his  absence  she  permitted  Helle  to  fill  the  house 
with  hei  lively  young  acquaintances,  and  winked  at  the 
manv  flagrant  viola;  ion-  of  politeness  manifested  by  the 
young  people  towards  the  daughter  of  their  absent  host, 
and  their  youthful  friend  and  attendant.  Hut  now  a  check 
inu-t  lie  put  to  all  indecorous,  proceedings;  and,  unfor- 
tunately for  tlv  execution  of  the  wife's  precautions,  the 
head  of  the  famiiv  returned  unexpectedly,  and  under  e:r- 
eunistanee-  which  forestalled  any  preparation.  He  arrived 
just  at  dusk,  having  come  iVom  t»wn  in  an  omnibus.  ,'t 
\\a-  a  cool  eveniiii:'.  the  windows  and  door-  wen-  closed,  ai.'l 
the  drawing-room  was  so  brilliantly  lighted  that  lie  sus- 
pected that  a  large  company  was  being  entertained  thery. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  227 

He  felt  vexed,  for  it  was  Saturday  night,  and,  in  accord- 
ance with  Xew  Kngiand  c.ustoms,  Mr.  Graham  loved  to  see 
his  household  quiet  on  that  evening.  lie  was  also  suffering 
from  a  violent  headache,  and,  avoiding  the  d  rawing-  room, 
passed  on  to  the  library,  and  then  to  the  dining-room.  Ho 
then  went  upstairs,  walked  through  several  rooms,  glanced 
indignantly  at  their  slovenly  appearance,  and  finally  gained 
Emily's  chamber. 

A  bright  wood  fire  burned  upon  the  hearth,;  a  couch  was 
drawn  up  beside  it,  on  which  Emilv  was  .sitting;  and  Ger- 
trude's little  roekhig-chair  occupied  the  opposite  corner. 
The  peaceful  face  of  Emily,  and.  the  radiant  expression  of 
Gertrude's  countenance,  as  she  saw  the  fa:  her  of  her  blind 
friend  looking  pleasantly  in  upon  them,  proved  such  a 
charming  contrast  to  the  scene:-  pre.-enied  in  other  parts  of 
the  house,  that  the  old  gentleman,  v.a.nned  to  more  than 
usual  satisfaction  with  both  of  the  inmates,  greeted  his 
surprised  daughter  with,  a  heartv  palerr.a!  embrace,  and 
gave  Gertrude1  an  equally  a!T<"i-tioua!''  greeting,  exclaiming, 
as  he  took  the  armchair,"  N'ow,  girls,  this  looks  pleasant 
nnd  home-like!  What  in  the  world  is  going  on  downstair.-?'' 
Emily  explained  that  there  was  company  slaying  in  the 
house. 

"Ugh!  company!''  grunted  Mr.  Graham,  in  a  dissatis- 
fied tone.  "I  think  so!  Been  emptying  rag-bags  about  the, 
chambers,  I  should  say,  from  the  looks." 

Gertrude  asked  if  h?  had  bee':  to  lea.  He  had  not,  and 
should  be  thankful  for  some;  he  was  tired. 

"Don't  tell  anybody  that  I've  go!  home,  Gerty,v  called 
he,  as  she  left  the  room;  "1  want  to  1-.,  irfi  in  peace  Ay- 
ni'jht,  at,  least." 

While  Gertrude  was  gone,  Mr.  Graham  oncstioned  Kmily 
a?  to  her  preparations  for  the  Kurnpeau  tour.  To  his  sur- 
prise, he  learned  that  she  iiad  never  received  Ir.s  uies-age 
communicated  in  ihe  letter  to  Mr-.  Graham,  and  l\m-\v 
nothing  of  his  plans.  Asroni-hed  ami  a:  gvy,  he  P  strained 
his  temper;  he  did  not  like  to  acknow!<  •  to  hiiusi  If.  fir 
less  to  his  daughter,  that  his  comm.n.d  iiad  been  disre- 
garded by  his  wife.  After  he  had  •  nj  >yi  d  a  comfortable, 
repast,  at  which  Gertrude  p,;-.-.:ded.  li.ey  bi,\h  retuiued  \« 
Emily's  room;  and  no\v  Mr.  Giaham".-  i  : 
the  Eveninrf  Tra/ixrri/i?. 

"  I  will  go  for  it."  said  ( iertrude.  ri.-ing. 


"King!"  said  M>.  GraTiam,  imperatively.  TTe  had  ol> 
served  that  (iert  rndo's  rinu'Mii;'  was.  disregarded,  and  wished 
to  know  the  cause  of  so  strange  a  piece  of  neglect.  (<er- 
trade  rang  several  tiiii'1.-,  but  uhta  ned  no  answer  to  the 
be]].  At  last  she  heard  Bri>;g<';..V  step  in  the  enti y,  and, 
opening  the  door,  said  to  h-r.  "  Bridget,  won't  you  find  the 
Transcript,  and  bring  it  to  Miss  Kmily's.  room  ? ''  Bridget 
soon  returned  with  the  annonneeniciit  that  .Miss  Isabella 
was  reading  it,  and  dcciined  to  give  it  up. 

A  storm  gath 'red  on  Mr.  (Jraham's  brow.  "Such  a 
message  to  ?////  diuujhfirl"  he  exclaimed.  ••  (iertrude.  go 
yourself  and  tell  the  impertinent  girl  that  7  want  t'hb 
paper  !  Wnul  sort  of  behaviour  is  this?"  he  muttered. 

Gertrude  entered  the  drawing-room  with  great  compo- 
sure, and,  amid  the  stares  <>{  the  eompanv.  spoke  in  a  m\\ 
tone  to  Belle,  who  immediately  yielded  np  the  paper,  look- 
ing much  confused  as  she  did  so.  Belie  was  afraid  of  Mr. 
(iraham;  and,  on  her  informing  her  aunt  of  hi*  return, 
that  lady  was  also  disconcerted.  She  Lad  fully  calculated 
upon  seeing  her  husband  before  lie  had  access  to  Kmily. 
But  it  was  too  late  now.  but  she  u-cd  :•';!  her  tact  to  dis- 
perse her  friend.-  at  an  oaily  hour,  and  then  found  Mr. 
(iraham  smoking  in  the  din  jig-room. 

lie  was  in  an  unpleasant  mood;  but  shv  contrived  to 
conciliate  rat lior  t ban  irritate  him,  avoided  all  discordant 
subjects,  and  the  next  morning  introduced  to  her  friends 
an  apparent  iy  ail'a  ':ie  hi 

But  this  serenit}  \vas  disturb  <•,]  loTig  before  the  Sabb-ath 
di'ew  to  a  close.  As  lie  wail  i  u]  !n  aisle,  before  morn- 
inu'  s.ei'vicc.  with  Kmily.  a •i-n-din;:  to  custom,  lean.ng  upon 
In-  arm.  b:s  brow  darkened  at  seeing  [sab°]  i'om  placentl1, 
seated  in  '.  iiat  curii'T  o'  tli«'  oli  fashioiu'ij  prw  which  had 
j'or  years  !iei>n  sacred  to  his  Mil  -  •  '••;•.  Mrs.  (iraham 

winked  at  her  niece,  but  [--a he]  wa  mentally  rather  obtuse. 
and  was  .subjected  to  (lie  mortifie;  <\,\;:  of  liuv:ng  Mr. 
Graham  rfmovo  iiev  'Vom  the  seat,  in  wliich  he  p,ac;^ 
Emily,  while  t  he  displaced  occupant,  who  ha<i  be*  n  so  mean 
foi-  tii'  ias.t  three  Sin  da  \  !  •  •  :'•  ;  rive  M  jss  ( i  i  a  ham  i  >f  !  his 
'•Id-esta  hi  ished  ;  i  :  .  u  a  >n,  i  •••'.  •  • .  lo  sit  III  I '  e  nl:l  V  Va.- 

lj;i'    '     p]   ,    'C.    heside  ',.  jt!>    he!     !,:!ek    !o   hie   pulpit. 

And   ve:-v  an.   -v  v. :  •;  • .!  ;,  j  i !-     .  i.-ihu-  iilioll 

in  a  . :  V   COM  n  1 1  i  i  i       •     •      '     •••-.': .     •_  :   -       '.  I';.r  pt'WS. 

.Mr      riaham  a'   iiomc  H  week  bei'ure  1)3  UU 


derstood  the  state  of  fee'ing  in  the  mind  of  his  wife  and 
Isabel,  and  the  manner  in  whieh  it  was  Iikelv  to  act  upon 
the  happiness  of  the  hou.-eh"!d.  He  saw  that.  Kmily  was 
superior  to  complain  i  ;  she  had  never  in  her  life  coin  plained  ; 
he  observed,  too,  Gertrude's  devotion  to  hi.-  much-loved 
child,  and  it  .stamped  her  in  his  mind  as  one  who  had  a 
claim  to  his  regard  which  should  never  be  disputed.  It  is 
not,  then,  t'>  be  wondered  at,  that  u  hen  Mrs.  Graham  made 
her  intended  insinuations  again.-t  hi-  youthful  protegee,  Mr. 
Graham  treated  them  with  contempt. 

He  had  known  Gertrude  from  a  child.  She  was  high- 
spirited— lie  had  sometimes  thought  her  wilful — but  tivcer 
mean  or  false.  It  was  no  use  to  tell  him  all  that  nonsense; 
— he  was  glad  that  it  "':;*  all  oil'  betueen  Kitty  and  Bruce; 
for  Ben  was  an  idle  fellow,  and  would  ne\er  make  a  good 
husband;  and,  as  to  Kitty.  lie  thought  her  much  improved 
of  late,  and  if  it  were  owinj  to  Gertrude's  influence,  the 
more  they  saw  of  each  other  the  bettor. 

Mrs.  Graham  was  in  despair,  '•  li  H  all  settled,"  said 
she  to  Isabel.  "It  is  no  use  to  contest  the  point;  Mr. 
Graham  is  firm  as  a  roc];,  u."d  as  sure  as  ire  go  to  Kurope. 
Emily  and  Gertrud"  will  go  Im, 

She  was  almost  -t.viled.  therefore,  by  an  excess  of  good- 
luck,  when  informed,  a  few  slays  afterwards,  that  the 
couple  she  had  so  dreaded  to  have  of  the  party  were  t"  lie 
left  behind,  at  Mi-s.  Graham's  special  re<|iiest.  Emily's 
scruples  with  regard  to  nr"  tioning  to  he!1  father  the  little 
prospect  of  pleasure  the  !O:M-  \vas  Iikelv  to  alTord  her  all 
vanished  when  she  found  (\\.\\  Gertrude  would  be  a  still 
greater  suifei'.r  from  tin  '"'•'}  t"  tshirh  she  would  be 

subjected. 

Blind  as  she  was.  Kmily  understood  and  pen-cived  almost 
everything  that  was  pas.-ing  around  her.  Quick  of  per- 
ception, and  with  a  he;iri;:  ;  ivi,do;v(;  doubly  intense  by 
her  want  of  sight,  the  e'.eMs  of  i.he  .-IIM-IIHT  were,  per- 
haps,  more  famihar  t"  her  than  to  ar  \  other  member  of 
the  family.  She  more  than  s>t-i  ted  the  exact  state  of 
matters  betwixt  Mr.  Bruet  and  Gertrude,  though  the 
latter  had  never  ?  :;'.i<'(''-  s-1'  ''"i:|- 

gined  !iow  Kilty  was  invi,i\-d  in  lh"  atVair  ( no  very  difli- 
eult  thing  to  con.'-eive  .!  ;  he  conlidence 

which  tin-  simple-la  ,.;  :e  !    •  y  madt,   vluiing 

lier  intercourse  with  h.1;  i 


230  TITJ-:  LAMl'UCHTEH. 

As  Mrs.  until :mi's  and  Isabel's  abuse  of  power  became 
more  open,  Mrs.  Kills  and  Mrs.  1'rime  considered  the  em- 
bargo upon  free  spec. M  in  Mi-'s  <!raham's  presence  wholly 
removed;  and  any  pain  wiiirh  the  knowledge  of  their 
ncu'lci  t  iniu'ht  have  caused  tier  was  more  than  compensated 
to  Kmily  by  the  proofs  it  had  called  forth  of  devoted  at- 
tachment  ami  willing  -erviee  on  the  part  of  her  adopted 
child,  as  she  loved  to  consider  (Jertrude. 

Cahnlv  mid  promptly  dni  she  re.-nlve  to  adopt  a  course 
which  should  fn'r  (iertrude  from  her  self-saeriticing  ser- 
vice. She  encountercil  inneh  opiK'isitioi:  from  her  father; 
but  he  had  seen,  during  {.he  previous  \vinterat  the  South, 
ho\v  K;ni;v's  inliniii;\  untitt<'d  iier  for  traveilinir,  ospcciallv 
when  de[>riveil  of  ( lert I'mie's  attendant  eves  ;  lie  no\v  real- 
ised how  contrary  to  her  tastes  and  habits  were  those  of 
his  new  wife  and  her  nice.r-s;  and,  unwilling  to  be  eon- 
vineed  of  thi1  folly  of  his  sudden  choice,  and  probablv  of 
unhappiness  from  it.  he  apprei;iat(>d  the  wisdom  of  Kmiiv'.s 
proposal,  and  felt  relief  hi  the  adoption  of  a,  course  wliich 
would  satisfy  all  pnrties. 


CHAPTER   XX XIII. 

TKAVKL    AM)    A     MVSTKIIV. 

MRS.  WAKKI.N'S  pleasant  boarding-house  was  chosen  b} 

"Kmilv  foi-  he!1  own  and  (iertrude's  wintej  home:  and  onft 
month  from  tin  time  "1  Mr.  (iraham's  return  from  New 
York  h  s  eountrv-1  oiise  was  closed ;  he.  his  wife.  Isabel. 
and  Kit'v  v.-iii  lo  Havre:  Mr-.  Kllis  went  to  enjoy  a  little. 
riv-M  from  care  \\  :  me  i-on-'iiis  al  Llie  ea-twai'd:  and 

Mr-.  Prime  was  established  a,-  cuok  in  Mrs.  \\arren\-  hoiise- 
ho  d. 

Altliouirli  amnle  aia'an^ements  wei'e  made  l>v  Mr. 
Gra1  an  .  and  pntljeiei  :  mean?  proviiK-il  for  the  support  of 
boi  h  Kmilv  and  ( iert  rude,  t  he  hit  tei-  was  anxious  to  be  use- 
fullv  employed,  and,  t  h'-rct'ore,  resumed  a  poitioii  id'  her 
scliool  duties  at  Mr  \\ 's.  Mueii  as  Kmilv  loved  ( lert  rude's 
I'otistali!  .  '  id ,  v  res.^ncd  her  fi  >r  a  fe\\p  lion  rs 

every  day,  rejoieeii     •    .  ;.    -o.ri!.  \\Jiieh  prompted  her  exer* 


THE  LAMWJdirTKll  C2'\\ 

tions,  and  rewarded  her  with  praise.  In  the  undisturbed 
enjoyment  of  each  other's  society,  and  in  their  in  ten-oil  r.-o 
with  a  small,  intelligent  circle  of  friends,  tiicy  passed  a 
season  of  sweet  tranquility.  They  read,  walked,  and  <  om- 
innned,  as  in  times  long  ]>ast.  Together  they  attended 
lectures,  concerts,  am'  galleries  of  ail. 

Jt  was  a  blissful  and  an  improving  winter  which  they 
passed  together.  They  lived  not  for  themselves  alone;  the 
poor  blessed  them,  the  sorrowful  came  to  them  for  sym- 
pathy, and  the  affection  which  thev  inspired  in  the  family 
circle  was  boundless.  Spring  came  and  passed  while  there, 
and  they  were  loth  to  leave  a  place  where  thev  had  been 
so  hap})y;  at  last  a  sudden  failure  in  Emily's  health  oc- 
curred, and  Dr.  Jeremy's  peremptory  command  caused 
them  to  seek  the  country  air. 

Added  to  her  anxiety  about  Kmilv.  (iertrude  beiian  to 
feel  much  troubled  at  Willie  Sullivan's  long  silence:  no 
word  from  him  i'oi  two  or  three  mouths.  Willie  could  nut 
have  forgotten  or  meant  to  neglect  hei.  'That  was  impos- 
sible. She  tried,  however,  not  to  feel  disturbed  about  it, 
and  gave  all  her  care  to  Kmily,  who  now  began  indeed  to 
require  it. 

They  went  to  the  sea-side  for  a  few  weeks;  but  the 
bracing  atmosphere  brought  no  strength  to  the  blind  girl's 
feeble  t'vame.  She  was  obliged  to  i/iv  up  her  daily  walks  : 
a  cont'iiued  weariness  robbed  her  .-tep  of  its  elasticity, 
and  her  mind  became  subject  to  depression,  while  her  nerv- 
ous temperament  became  so  susceptible  that  the  uliiio.-t 
care  was  requisite  to  preserve  her  from  all  exeiti  nient 

The  doc  to'1  often  catne  ;  <>  see  h,  :s  lav  on  rite  pat  ten  t :  but  as 
she  got  worse  instead  of  better,  he  ordered  her  back  to  tin; 
city,  declaring  that  Mrs.  .lerrv's  front  chamber  was  as  cuo| 
•ami  comfortable  as  the  contracted  apartments  o!  the 
crowded  lioa rd ing-house  at  Nahant,  ai.d  he  in.-isted  upon 
both  I i^r  and  (iertrudc  to  take  up  tiieir  <|iiarters  fora  Week 
or  two:  and  then,  if  Kmilv  weie  no  better,  he  hoped  to 
have  leisure  to  stari  oil  with  them  i;i  search  of  health. 
Kmily  thought  she  was  doing  very  \\vll  where  she  was.  and 
was  afraid  to  be  troublesome  to  M  ;•-.  Jeremy. 

"Hon't  talk  about  trouble.  Kmiiv;  you  ought  to  km>w 
Mrs.  Jerry  bettei  by  this  time.  Corny  141  to-morrow;  I'll 
uu'.et  you  at  the  car-: '  (Jood-bye  1 


/. .1  .V / V, / <  ,'7/ TKll. 

(iertrnde  followed   him.       •''  T    see,    doctor,    you    think 

Kind v  is  m>t  so  wvi!.M 

'•'No;  how  should  she  be  ?  What  with  the  sea  roaring 
on  cue  side,  and  Mrs-  Kellows's  babies  on  the  other,  it's 
enough  to  wear  away  her  strength.  I  won't  have  it  so! 
This  isn't  the  place  for  her,  and  do  you  bring  her  up  to  my 
house  t.o-HiutTow." 

"'The  babies  don't  usually  cry  as  much  as  they  have  to- 
dav,"  said  (iertrude,  smiling;  "and  as  to  the  ocean,  Emily 
loves  dearly  to  hear  the  waves  rolling  in.'' 

"Knew  she  did  !"  said  the  doctor.  '"Shan't  do  it;  bad 
for  her;  it  makes  her  sad.  without  her  knowing  why. 
lirinu"  In1)-  up  to  Boston,  as  L  tell  vou." 

It  was  thive  weeks  after  the  arrival  of  his  visitors  before 
the  popular  physician  could  steal  away  from  his  patients  to 
enjov  a  few  weeks' recreation  in  travelling.  For  his  own 
sake  he  would  hardlv  have  thought  of  attempting  so  un- 
usual a  thing  as  a  journey ;  and  his  wife,  too,  loved  home 
so  much  better  than  any  other  place  that  she  was  loth  to 
start  for  parts  unknown;  but  both  wen-  willing  to  sacritiee 
their  long-indulged  habits  for  the  advantage  of  their  young 
friends. 

Kmilv  was  decidedly  better:  and  viewed  with  pleasure 
the  prospect  of  visiting  West  Point.  Catskill.  and  Saratoga, 
even  on  her  own  account  :  an-!  when  she  reflected  upon  the 
probable  enjovment  the  trip  would  alTord  (iertrude,  she  felt 
herself  endowed  with  newst  rength  for  t  he  undertaking,  (ier- 
trude needed  change  <>!'  scene  and  diversion  of  mind  almost 
as  mudi  as  Kmi.v.  The  excessive  heat,  and  her  constant 
attendance  in  the  in\aiid's  room,  had  paled  the  roses  MI 
her  cheeks,  while  care  and  anxietv  had  weighed  upon  hei 
mind. 

New  Y'.rk  ua-  their  first  destination;  but  the  heat  and 
dust  of  the  city  W"re  almo-t  insufferable,  and  during  the 
dav  they  passed  there  only  Mr.  Jerem\  ventured  out  of  the 
h«:~i  exi  ep|  once,  when  Mrs.  .Jeremy  and  (iertrude  went  in 
search  o!  dress-caps.  l'"t  the  doctor  passed  the  whole 
dav  in  the  re\  ival  of  old  acuuaiii  i  ances,  and  some  of  these 
warm-hearted  friends  hav;irj  tu'e-ented  themselves  at.  the 
hotel  in  t  he  eVeliinir  to  be  il;t  todueed  to  M  rs.  ,1  eremy  and 

hi-r  emu  pa'i  mn>.  I    eir  r ••'       e-d  ive  tied  until  a  hit'.1  hour 

!>v    the   clH-ert'iii    conversat  on    of   a    ^'rolip    of    eldcrlv    men, 
wiio,   as     tiiey    recalled    the    icetierf  and    incideutrf   of    their 


TITK  LAMPLIGHTER.  £'.':,:5 

VOllthful  days,  seemed  to  renew  their  youthful  spir'ts. 
The  conversation,  however,  wa-  not  of  a  eharacter  to  ex- 
clude the  ladies  from  part  iejpat  ing  in  as  weli  as  enjoying 
it.  Emily  listened  with  delight  to  a  conversation  which 
had  such  varied  charms,  and  shared  with  (lertrude  the 
admiration  of  the  doctor's  friends,  who  were  all  excited  u> 
the  wannest  sympathy  for  her  misfortune. 

Upon  hearing  that.  Dr.  Jeremy's  party  was  going  up  the 
Hudson  next  morning.  ])i-.  Grvseworth,  of  Philadelphia, 
who  had  been  a  student  of  our  good  doctor's,  expressed  his 
pleasure  to  meet  them  on  the  boat,  and  to  introduce  to 
(Jertrude  his  two  daughters,  whom  he  \\as  to  aerompanv  to 
Saratoga  to  meet,  their  grandmother. 

Gertrude,  who  slept  soundly  until  wakened  by  Miss 
Graham,  started  up  in  astonishment  on  seeinir  her  dres.-ed 
and  standing  by  the  bedside — a  most  unusual  circumstance, 
as  Gertrude's  morning  ki.-s  was  wont  to  be  Emily's  first 
intimation  of  daylight. 

•'Six  o'clock,  Gertv.and  the  boat  starts  at  seven  !  The 
doctor  lias  knocked  at  our  door.''' 

'"'  How  soundly  I  have  slept  !  "  exclaimed  Gertrude.  "  I 
wonder  if  it's  a  pleasant  dav." 

•'Beautiful  !  "  i-eplied  Emily,  '•  but  very  warm.  Th.e  sun 
was  shining  so  brightly  that  1  had  to  close  the  blinds  on 
account  of  the  heat." 

Gertrude    made   haste,  but    was   not   quite   dres-ed  when 
they   were     summoned     to    breakfast.      She    had    trunk.-   to 
lock,  and  therefore  insisted   upon  the  other-;  preceding  her 
to  the  breakfast-hall.     The  company  was  small,  consi.-ting 
only  of  two  parlies  besides  Dr.  Jeremy's,  and    i  few  gentle- 
men,   most  of  them    bu.-ine.-s   men.       Of    those    \\\\<> 
lingereil  at    the   (aide    when    (lerlv    made   h'  r  appeararnv 
there  was  .inly  one   \\liom    she    particular!)    observed    dur- 
ing the  few  moments  allowed  fur  breakfast. 

This  was  a  gentleman  who  sat  ai  some  d 
idly  balancing  his   tea-spoon  on  [he  edge 
seemed    ipiite  at    his    leisure,   and    previo 
entraiK/e  had  won  Airs.  Jeremy's  animadv 
propensity  to  make  a  more  crit.cai  survi 
she   found   agreeable. 

"'  Do,  pray,'' said  she  to  (lie  doctor.  '; 
ask  that  man  to  take  something  him-e 
hav-j  anybody  looking  .it  me  - 


234-  TIIK  LA 


"lie  isn't  looking  at  you,  wife:  it's  Kmily  that  has 
taken  his  fancy.  Kmily,  inv  dear,  there's  a  gentleman, 
over  opposite,  who  admires  you  exceedingly.'' 

"'Is  there  ?  "  said  Kmilv,  smilii.'g,  "I  am  very  much 
obliged  to  him.  May  1  venture  to  return  the  compliment?  " 

"Yes.  He's  a  line-looking  fellow,  though  wife,  here, 
doesn't  seem  to  like  him  very  well." 

Gertrude  now  joined  them,  and,  as  she  made  her  morn 
ing  salutions  to  the  doctor  and  his  wife,  and  gaily  apolo 
gised  to  the  former  for  her  tardiixss,  the  line  colour  which 
mantled  her  countenance,  and  the  deep  hrillianey  of  her 
eyes,  drew  affectionate  admiration  from  the  kind  old  cou- 
ple, and  were,  perhaps,  the  cause  of  the  stranger's  attention 
being  transferred  from  the  lovely  face  of  Kmily  to  the 
more  youthful  and  eloquent  features  of  Gertrude.  Taking 
her  seat,  she  soon  perceived  the  notice  she  was  attracting. 
It  embarrassed  her,  and  she  was  glad  to  see,  in  a  few 
minutes,  the  gentleman  rise  ami  depart.  As  he  passed  out, 
she  had  an  opportunity  of  observing  him,  which  she  had 
not,  done  while  he  sat  opposite  to  her.  lie  was  above  the 
middle  height,  slender,  but  linely  formed,  and  of  a  digni- 
lied  bearing.  His  features  were  rather  sharp,  but.  expres- 
sive, and  even  handsome;  his  dark  eyes  were  most  pene- 
trating, while  his  compressed  lips  indicated  strength  of 
resolution  and  will. 

His  hair  was  peculiar;  it  was  deeply  tinged  with  grey, 
and  in  the  vicinity  of  his  temples,  white.  This  \\-;ls  strik- 
ingly in  contrast  with  the  youthful  lire  of  his  eve,  and  the 
lightness  of  his  step,  that  instead  of  seeming  the  effect  of 
age,  it  enhanced  the  contradictory  claims  of  his  otherwise 
apparent  yout  h  and  vigour. 

"What  a  queer-looking  man,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Jeremy, 
when  he  had  passed  out. 

"An  elegant-looking  man,  isn't  he?  "  said  Gertrude. 

"Elegant?"  rejoined  Mrs.  Jeremy.  "What!  with  that 
grey  head  ?  " 

"I  think  it's  beautiful.'"  said  Gertrude;  "'but  I  wish  he 
didn't  look  so  melancholy;  it  makes  me  cjuite  sad  to  see 
him." 

''  I  low  old  .-hoiild  you  think  he  was?''  a.-ked  Dr.  Jeremy. 

"  About  lift  v,"  said   M  rs.  Jeremy. 

"About  thirty,"  said  Hurt  rude. 


THE   T.AWrT 

"A  wide  difference,"  remarked  Emily.  "Doctor,  you 
must  decide  the  point." 

"Impossible!  1  wouldn't  venture  to  toll  that  man's 
age  within  ten  years,  at  least.  Wife  has  got  him  old 
enough,  certainly;  perhaps  I  might  .see  him  as  low  as  <ier- 
trude's  ma.-k.  Age  never  turned  hi*  hair  grey!— that  is 
certain." 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

A    NKV,'    ArorAf 


To  travellers  iu  the  United  States,  a  trip  from  Hosl.  n 
into  Xew  York  slate  is  an  evervdav  all'air,  scarce  worth 
calling  a  journey;  hut  to  I>r.  Jeremy  it  was  a  momentous 
event,  calling  tlic  good  physician  out  of  a  routine  of  dailv 
professional  visits,  which.  for  tweiitv  vears,  had  not  hern 
interrupted  hv  a  week's  absence.  tY«m  home,  and  plunging 
him  at  once  into  that  whirl  of  hurrv.  lumult.  and  excite- 
ment. which  exists  on  ail  our  great  routes,  especially  in 
the  summer  season. 

The  doctor  was  by  nature  and  habit  a  social  brin:.:'  ; 
never  shrinking  from  intercourse  with  hi-  fellow-men,  but 
seeking  and  enjoying  t  heir  companionship,  lie  knew  how 
to  adapt  himself  to  the  taste  nf  voimir  and  old.  rich  and 
poor,  ami  was  well  acquainted  with  cit\  iife  in  all  its  form-. 
In  the  art  of  travelling,  however,  he  was  tolailv  unversed. 

Thaiikt'ul  were  the  p;.rlv  when  thev  were  safe  on  the 
steamboat;  and  were  conni'alura'ine;  them.-elves  and  each 
other,  when  the  doctor  called  from  the  other  end  of  the 
Saloon  —  ''Come,  come,  wife—  <  icrt  rude,  Kmdv!  what  are 
you  staving  down  in  This  conlined  place  for?  vou'Il  !".<e 
the  best  view  :  "  and.  eomi  IIL;'  t-'W:ird  them,  he  took  (icr- 
trude's  arm,  and  would  have  hurried  he;-  awav.  lea\ing 
Mrs.  Jeremy  and  Kmilv  to  follow;  but  <  ienrude  would  not 
trust  Kmily  to  ascend  the  c;ibin->ta  ;\-  under  any  Li'iiardian- 
ship  but  her  own.  and  Mrs.  .Jeremv  immeil.ateh  eiiga'.r"d 
the  doctor  in  an  animated  |!  scin-siou  as  t"  the  adv  sabi 
it  v  of  his  adopting  a  si  raw  hat.  which  the  thought  fill  \\  ilc 
bud-  brought  from  liume.  l'i\  the  1.1110  the  question  wai 


2  '> G  Tin-:  T.  A  I/YY.  i< ni  rmi. 

settled,  and  Emily,  at  Gertrude's  persuasion,  had  been  in- 
duced to  change  her  thin  mantilla  fur  a  light  travelling- 
cloak',  the  boat  had  proceeded  some  distance,  and  when  our 
party  gained  the  head  of  the  stairs,  and  looked  about  them 
for  seats  on  deck,  not  a  single  vacant  bench  was  to  be 
seen.  There  was  a  large  number  of  passengers,  nearly  all 
of  whom  were  collected  at  the  stern  of  the  boat.  Dr.1 
Jeremy  went  in  search  of  chairs. 

"'  Don't  let  us  stay  here."  whispered  Mrs.  Jeremy  to 
Gertrude  and  Kmily.  "Let's  go  right  back  before  the 
doctor  comes!  There  are  beautiful  great  rocking-chairs 
down  in  the  cabin,  without  a  soul  to  sit  in  them,  and  I'm 
sure  we  ain't  wanted  here  to  make  up  a  eompany.  1  hate 
to  stand  with  all  these  people  staring  at  us,  and  crowing 
to  think  they've  got  such  nice  places;  don't  you,  Kmilv?'' 
Mrs.  Jeremy  just  then  forgot  that  Kmilv  could  not  see. 
But  Gertrude  never  forgot  it;  and.  as  she  stood  with  her 
arm  lightly  [tressed  around  her  friend's  waist,  to  prevent 
the  motion  of  the  boat  from  throwing  her  oil'  her  balance, 
they  attracted  attention;  the  one  so  bright,  erect,  and 
strong  with  youth  and  health,  that  she  seemed  a  tit  protec- 
tor for  the  other,  who,  in  her  ;'\veet  and  gentle  helpless- 
ness, leaned  upon  her  so  trustingly. 

Here  Mrs.  Jeremy  was  interrupted  by  the  salutation  of 
Dr.  Gryscworth,  who  insisted  upon  giving  up  his  seat  to 
Mrs.  Jeremy;  and  another  gentleman,  till  now  unnoticed 
by  our  party,  rose,  and  houin:.:  pulitHv.  placed  his  own 
chair  fur  Kmilv,  and  walked  quickly  away.  It  was  the 
stranger  whom  they  had  seen  at  breakfast.  Gertrude  rec- 
oiV'iised  his  keen,  dark  eve,  and  his  singular  hair;  and,  as 
she  t  hanked  him,  ami  placed  Kmilv  in  the  seat,  she  colon  red 
under  his  earnest  glance-.  But  Dr.  Grvseworth  soon 
claimed  her  attention  for  the  introduction  to  his  daughters, 
and  all  thoughts  of  the  retreating  si  ranger  were  banished 
for  t  he  present. 

•th   were    intelligent-looking  girls; 
from    Kiirope,    where   she    had 
fat  ii-T,    was    considered   a  verv 
am 


and 


THE  L  A  MI  }u<;  //v/.Vi'.  2  o  7 

Dr.  Grysewort.li  comfortably  accommodated,  and  was  thus 
enabled  to  sink  at  once  into  his  seat,  and  into  that  state  of 
easy  unconcern  which  became  his  pleasant,  genial  tempera- 
ment. 

Long  before  the  boat  readied  West  Point,  where  the 
•Teremys  were  to  land,  an  excellent  understanding  subsisted 
between  Gertrude  and  the  Misses  (iryseworth.  They  had 
been  about  an  hour  in  each  other's  societv,  wh>'ii  Xetta 
( !  ry.-eworth,  glancing  towards  another  part  of  the  boat, 
said  in  an  undertone,  ''  Fllen,  do  invite  Mr.  Phillips  to 
come  back  and  be  introduced  to  Miss  Flint  !- — see  how 
lonesome  the  poor  man  looks.'' 

Gertrude  followed  the  direction  of  Xetta's  eve.  and  saw 
the  stranger  of  the  morning  at  some  distance,  slowly  pacing 
up  and  down,  with  a  serious  and  distracted  air. 

"  lie  has  not  been  near  us  for  an  hour."  said  Xetta. 

'•'  I  hope  we  have  not  frightened  your  friend  awav,''  said 
Gertrude. 

"Oh,  no,  indeed!"  replied  Fllen.  "Although  Mr. 
Phillips  is  but  a  recent  acquaintance,  we  have  found  him 
so  independent,  a.nd  sometimes  so  whimsical,  t  hat  1  am 
never  astonished  at  being  suddeiilv  forsaken  bv  him.  There, 
are  some  people,  you  know,  for  whom  it  is  always  sutlicient. 
excuse  to  say.  //  /*  llnlr  //•////.  \  wish  he  would  condescend 
to  join  us  again,  however;  1  should  like  to  introduce  him 
to  you.  Miss  Flint/' 

"Yon  wouldn't  like  him,"  said  Xetta. 

"Xo\v,  that  is  not  fair,  Xetia  !  "  said  her  sister,  "to  pre- 
judice Miss  Flint  against  my  friend.  Yon  mustn't  let  her 
influence  you,"  said  she  to  Gertrude.  "She  hasn't  known 
him  half  as  long  as  I  have;  and  1  do  not  dislike  him.  My 
straightforward  sist"r  never  likes  odd  peopl 
confess  that  Mr.  Phillips  is  eccentric:  but  he 
all  the  more  071  that  account,  and  1  am  sun 
would  have  manv  ideas  and  sentiments  in 

'•  How   can   yon    say   sn 
they  are  totally  difl'"rent. 

"  You  in  list;  consider 
Miss  Flint."  said  Kllen  ;  ' 
if  it  had  come  from  me." 

'  •  I  in  t  \'oii  w.shrd  me 
oddity,"  said  Gerti  ude. 


238  7777?  L.\^fPI.T^^TER. 

ciplc  that  one's   misfortunes   should    be   shared   by  one's 
friends.'' 

Netta  laughed.  "Not  exactly,"  said  she;  "it  was  com- 
passion for  h im  that  moved  me.  I  can't  help  pitying  him 
when  he  looks  so  home-sick,  and  I  thought  your  society 
would  brighten  him  up  and  do  him  good.'' 

"Ah,  Xetta!'"  said  her  si.-ter,  "  lie  ha.-  excited  your  sym- 
pathy, I  see.  A  few  days  more,  and  I  shouldn't  be  sur- 
prised if  you  went  beyond  me  in  your  admiration  of  him 
If  so,  take  care,  you  transparent  creature,  not  to  betrav 
your  inconsistency."  Then  she  said  to  Gertrude,  "  Xettu 
met  Mr.  Phillips  only  yestcrdav  and  has  not  seemed  very 
favourably  impressed.  Father  and  I  \vere  passengers  in  the 
same  steamer  in  which  he  came  from  Liverpool  a  few  weeks 
ago.  lie  had  an  ill  turn  in  the  earlv  part  of  the  voyage, 
and  it  was  in  a  professional  way  that  father  first  made  his 
acquaintance.  I  was  surprised  at  seeing  him  on  board  to- 
day, for  he  mentioned  no  such  intention  yesterday." 

Gertrude  suspected  that  the  yo  111111"  lady  might  herself  be 
the  cause  of  his  journey:  but  she  did  not  say  so,  and  the 
conversation  taking  another  turn,  Mr.  Phillips  was  not 
again  adverted  to,  though  Gertrude  observed,  just  before 
the  boat  stopped  at  \Vest  Poiir  that  Dr.  Jeremy  and  Dr. 
Gryseworth  had  joined  him,  and  that  the  trio  were  en- 
gaged in  a  colloquy  which  seemed  to  interest  them  all.  At 
West  Point,  Gertrude  parted  from  her  no\v  friends,  who  ex- 
pressed a  wish  to  meet  in  Saratoga. 

Our  travellers  passed  one  night  onlvat  \\Vst  Point.  Tho 
weather  continued  hot,  and  Dr.  Jeremy,  perceiving  that 
Emilv  drooped  under  the  oppressive  atmosphere,  wa<<  d"- 
sirous  to  reach  the  summit  of  Cat. -"kill  Mountain  before  tho 
coming  Sabbath. 

One  solitary  moonlight  evening  sutllrd  to  give  Gertrude 
some  idea  of  the  beauties  of   th"  place.      She  could  no 
serve  it  in  detail,  only  as  a  whole; 
all  the  drearnv  loveliness  (*f  a  summe 
mind  a  vague  sentiment  of  wo.ider 
passing    sweetness   of    what 
Paradise  than  an  actual 

the    SCflie.     so    Stiii,     SO 

she,  n>  t  hev  stood  tog'  t 
the  most  st  nkiiiLT  pr 
"it    looks    like    von; 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  230 

priestess  of  such  a  temple;''  and,  locking  her  hand  in  that 
of  Emily,  she  poured  into  her  ear  the  holy  and  elevated 
sentiments  to  which  the  time  and  the  place  gave  birth. 

At  an  earlv  hour  in  the  morning  they  steamed  up  the 
river.  Hut  West  Point  was  hardly  passed  before  Gertrude's 
watchful  eye  detected  in  Emily's  countenance  signs  of 
weariness  and  debility.  Sacrificing,  without  hesitation, 
the  pleasure  she  was  herself  deriving  from  beautiful  scenes 
through  which  the  boat  was  passing,  she  proposed  that 
they  should  seek  the  cabin,  where  Miss  Graham  might  rest 
in  greater  stillness.  Hut  Emily  would  not  listen  to  the 
proposal;  would  not  think  of  depriving  Gertrude  of  the 
pleasure  she  knew  she  must  be  experiencing. 

"The  prospect  is  all  lost  upon  me  now,  Emily,"  said 
Gertrude.  "  I  sec  only  your  tired  face.  ])o  go  and  lie 
down,  if  it  be  only  to  please  me  ;  vou  hardly  slept  at  all 
last  night."' 

"Are  you  talking  of  going  below?"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Jeremy.  "I,  for  one,  shall  be  thankful,  too;  it's  as  com- 
fortable again,  and  we  can  see  all  we  want  to  from  the 
cabin  windows;  can't  we,  Emily?" 

"Should  you  really  prefer  it?"  inquired  Emily. 

"Indeed,  1  should!  "said  Mrs.  Jeremy,  with  such  em- 
phasis that  her  sincerity  could  not  be  doubted. 

"'  Then,  if  you  will  promise  to  stay  here,  Gertrude,"  said 
Emily,  "I  will  go  with  Mrs.  Jeremy." 

Gertrude  assented  to  the  plan;  but  insisted  upon  first 
accompanying  them,  to  find  a  vacant  berth  for  Emily,  anil 
see  her  under  circumstances  which  would  promise  repose. 
Emily  was  too  weak  to  endure  the  noise  on  deck,  and  after 
she  had  laid  down  in  the  quiet  saloon,  Gertrude  stood 
smoothing  baek  her  hair,  and  watching  her  pale  counte- 
nance, until  she  was  accused  of  violating  the  agreement, 
and  was  at  last  sent  olf  by  the  good-natured  doctor's  Iad\% 
who  declared  herself  perfectly  well  able  to  take  care  ol' 
Emily. 

"You'd  better  make  haste  buck,"  she  said,  "before  }ou 
lose  your  seat;  and.  Gerty,  don't  let  the  doctor  come  neai 
us  ;  he'll  be  teasing  us  to  go  b;iek  again,  and  we  sluill  not. 
Mrs.  .Jeremy  untied  her  bonnet-strings,  put  her  (Vet  up  in 
the  opposite  chair,  clapped  her  hands  at  Gertrude,  ;nid 
bade  her  begone. 

Gertrude  ran  off  laughing,  and  a  smile  was  on  her  f:i<-e 


240  TUK  LAMPIJC.1ITER. 

rhen  she  reached  the  staircase.      As  she  fame  up  with  hci 

quick  and  light,  step,  a  tall  figure  moved  aside  to  let  her 
pass.  It  was  Mr.  Phillips.  He  bowed,  and  (iertrude,  re- 
turning the  salutation,  passed  on  to  the  place  she  had  left, 
wondering  how  he  came  to  be  again  their  travelling  com- 
panion. He  could  not  have  been  on  board  previously  to 
her  going  below  with  Emily. 

(iertrude  had  sat  about  five  minutes,  when  a  shadow 
passed  before  her,  and  looking  up.  she  betrayed  a  little 
confusion  at  again  encountering  a.  pair  of  eyes,  whose  mag- 
netic, ga/.e  bewildered  her.  She  was  turning  awav,  when 
the  stranger  spoke.  ''  (!ood  morning,  young  ladv!  our 
paths  still  lie  in  the  same  direction,  I  see.  Will  you  honour 
me  by  making  use  of  my  guide-book?" 

As  lie  spoke  he  offered  her  a  little  book  containing  a 
map  of  the  river,  and  the  shores  on  either  side,  (iertrude 
took  it,  and  thanked  him.  As  she  unfolded  the  map  he 
stationed  himself  a  few  steps  distant,  and  leaned  over  the 
railing,  in  an  apparently  absent  state  of  mind;  nor  did  ho 
speak"  to  her  again  for  some  minutes.  Then,  suddenly 
turning  towards  her,  he  said,  "  You  like  this  very  much?" 

"  Very  much,"  said  (iertrude. 

"  You  have  never  seen  anything  so  beautiful  before  in 
your  life."  lie  did  not  seem  to  question  her;  he  spoke  as 
if  lie  knew. 

"  It  is  an  old  ,-tory  to  you,  F  suppose,"  said  Gertrude. 

''What  makes  you  think  so?"  asked  he,  smiling. 

(iertrude  was  disconcerted  by  his  look,  and  still  more  by 
his  smile;  it  changed  his  whole  face  so— it  made  him  look 
so  handsome,  ami  yet  so  melancholy.  She  blushed  and 
could  not  reply:  he  saved  her  the  t  rouble.  "That  is  hardly 
a  fair  question,  is  it:  You  probably  think  you  have  as 
much  reason  for  your  opinion  as  I  had  for  mine.  You  are 
wrong,  however;  1  never  was  here  before;  hut  I  am  too 
old  a  traveller  to  carry  my  enthusiasm  in  my  eyes  —  as  you 
do. "added  he,  after  a  moment's  pause,  during  which  he 
looked  IHT  full  in  the  face.  Then  seeming  to  perceive  the 
embarrassment  which  his  scrutiny  of  her  features  caused, 
he  turned  awav.  and  a  shadow  passed  ovei  his  fine  coiinte- 
nan  e.  lend'trj;  it  for  a  moment  an  expiv-  ion  of  mingled 
bitterness  and  pathos,  which  served  to  disarm  (iertrude's 
eon  fusion. 

lY'jsi'i:tly,  taking  a  vacant   chair  next   hers,   lie  directed 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  241 

his  attention  to  a  beautiful  country  residence  on  tneir  right, 
spoke  of  its  former  owner,  \\iioin  he  had  met  in  a  foreign 
land,  and  related  some  interesting  anecdotes  concerning  a 
journey  \vliieh  thev  had  taken  together.  This  introduced 
other  topics,  chiefly  connected  wi'h  wanderings  in  countries 
almost  unknown;  and  so  iieh  and  varied  was  the  strangers 
conversation,  so  graphic  were  his  descriptions,  so  exuberant 
his  imagination,  and  so  powerful  his  command  of  words 
and  his  gift  of  expressing  his  thought;-,  that  his  listener 
sat  entranced  with  delight. 

When  Dr.  Jeremy  came  in  search  of  his  young  charge, 
conversation  between  her  and  the  Granger  had  assumed  so 
much  ease  and  freedom  that  the  doctor  opened  his  eyes  in 
astonishment,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  exclaimed, 
''This  is  pretty  well.  1  declare!'" 

Gertrude  did  not.  see  the  doctor  approach,  hut  looked  up 
at  the  sound  of  his  voice.  Conscious  of  the  surprise  it 
must  he  to  -ind  her  talking  so  familiarly  with  a  stranger, 
she  coloured  slightly;  hut  observing  that  her  companion 
only  smiled,  she  felt  rather  amused  than  embarrassed;  and 
she  began  to  feel  confidence  in  her  fellow-traveller,  who 
rose,  shook  hands  with  Dr.  Jeremy,  to  \\hom  he  had,  the 
previous  day,  been  introduced,  and  said,  with  perfect  com- 
posure, "Will  you  have  the  kindness,  sir.  to  present  me  to 
this  ladv  ?  We  have  already  had  some  conversation  to- 
gether, but  do  not  yet  know  by  what  name  we  mav  address 
each  other." 

Dr.  Jeremy  having  performed  the  ceremony  of  introduc- 
tion, Mr.  Phillips  boned  gracefully,  and  looked  at  Gertrude 
in  such  a  benignant,  fathorlv  wav,  that  >he  hesitated  not  to 
take  his  offered  hand,  lie  detained  hers  a  moment  while 
he  said,  "  Do  not  be  afraid  of  me  when  we  meet  again;" 
and  then  walked  away,  and  paced  slowly  up  and  down  the 
deck  until  passengers  for  Catskil!  were  summoned  to 
dinner,  when  he.  Dr.  Jeremv.  and  (iertrude  went  below. 
The  doctor  tried  to  rally  Gertrude  about  her  grey-headed 
beau,  declaring  that  he  was  vet  v<>un<_:'  and  handsome,  and 
that  she  could  ha\e  his  hair  dved  anv  colour  she  plt-a.-ed. 
Hut  he  could  not  succeed  in  annoying  her  in  that  wav,  for 
her  interest  in  him,  winch  she  could  not  denv,  \va-  quite 
independent  of  his  persona!  appearance. 

The  bustle,  however,  of  dinner,  and  going  on  shoie  at 
Cutskill,  banished  from  ihu  doctor's  head  all  thought  of 


242  Tin:  j.AM 

everything  except  the  safety  of  himself,  his  ladies,  and  theh 
baggage. 

Emily,  whose  nervous  system  was  somewhat  disordered, 
clung  tremblingly  to  Gertrude;  and  Gertrude  found  her* 
self,  she  knew  not  how,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Mr.  Phil- 
lips, to  whose  silent  exertions  they  were  both  indebted  for 
their  safety  in  disembarking.  Mrs.  Jeremy  was  counting 
up  the  trunks,  while  her  husband  was  loudly  denouncing 
the  steamboat,  its  conductors,  and  the  whole  hurrying> 
skurrying  Yankee  nation. 

Two  stage-coaches  were  waiting  fit  the  wharf  to  take  p«a 
sengers  up  the  mountain,  and  before  Dr.  Jeremy  had  turned 
his  hack  upon  the  river,  Kinily  and  Gertrude  were  placed 
in  one  of  them  by  Mr.  Phillips,  who,  without  speaking, 
took  this  office  upon  himself,  and  then  went  to  inform  the 
doctor  of  their  whereabouts,  and  the  doctor  uud  his  wile 
soon  joined  them. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

THE   ROCK   OF  AGES. 

BEFORE  they  had  gained  the  road  leading  to  the  Moun- 
tain House,  they  became  conscious  of  the  vast  difference 
between  the  temperature  of  the  river  and  that  of  the 
inland  country,  and,  in  being  suddenly  deprived  of  the 
refreshing  breeze  they  had  enjoyed  on  board  the  boat,  they 
fully  realised  the  extreme  heat  of  the  weather.  For  the 
first  few  miles  Gertrude's  care  was  required  to  shield  Emily 
and  herself  from  the  rays  of  the  burning  sun;  and  it  was 
a  great  relief  when  they  reached  the  beautifully-shaded 
road  which  led  up  the  side  of  the  mountain.  The  atmos- 
phere being  clear,  the  gradually  widening  prospect  was 
b'-autiful,  and  Gertrude's  delight  was  su/;h  that  the  restraint 
imposed  by  stagc-coaoh  decorum  was  almost  insupportable, 
\\  tifii,  therefoie,  the  a-cent  became.  so  laborious  that,  tin; 
•_"  i  tit-men  alighted  to  relieve  the  \ve.irv  hoifies,  GertrtHro 
\  aeeepted  J)r.  Jeremy's  proposal  that  she  ishouiu 
aecMim.any  him  on  a  walk  of  a  mile  or  two. 

Gertrude  wu.;  an  excellent,  wa.iker,  ami  fiho  and  thcut'tive 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  243 

doctor  soon  left  the  couches  far  behind.  At  a  sudden  turn 
in  the  road  they  stopped  to  view  the  scene  below,  and  stood 
enjoying  the  stillness  and  beauty  of  the  spot,  when  they 
were  startled  by  hearing  a  voice,  saying,  "  A  fine  landscape, 
certainly!" 

It  came  from  Mr.  Phillips,  seated  upon  a  moss-grown 
rock,  against  which  Gertrude  was  leaning.  His  attitude 
was  easy  and  careless,  his  broad-brimmed  straw  hat  lay  on 
the  ground,  and  his  snow-besprinkled  hair  was  tossed  bach 
from  his  high  and  expanded  forehead.  He  immediately 
joined  Dr.  Jeremy  and  Gertrude. 

"You  have  got  the  start  of  us,  sir,"  said  the  former. 

"Yes;  I  have  walked  from  the  village — my  practice  al- 
ways when  the  roads  are  such  that  no  time  can  be  gained 
by  riding/' 

As  he  spoke,  he  placed  in  Gc.  trude's  hand,  without  look- 
ing at  her,  or  Deeming  con-eions  what  he  was  doing,  a 
bouquet  of  rich  laurel  hiossoms.  She  would  have  thanked 
him,  hut  his  absent  manner  was  such  that  it.  afforded  her 
no  opportunity,  especially  as  he  went  on  talking  with  the 
doctor,  as  if  she  had  not  been  present-. 

All  three  resumed  I  heir  walk.  Mr,  Phillips  and  Dr. 
Jeremy  conversed  in  an  animated  manner,  and  Gertrude, 
coiitent  to  be  a  listener,  soon  perceived  that  she  was  not  the 
only  person  to  whom  the  stranger  had  power  to  render 
himself  agreeable.  J'r.  J<.-ivmy  engaged  him  upon  u 
variety  of  subjects,  upon  all  of  which  lie  appeared  equally 
well  informed;  and  Gertrude  smiled  to  see  her  old  friend 
rub  his  hands  together— his  mode  of  expressing  satisfac- 
tion. 

Gertrude  thought  their  new  acquaintance  must  be  a  botan- 
ist by  profession,  so  versed  was  lie  in  everything  relating  to 
that  science.  Again,  she  v/as  sure  that  geology  must  have 
been  with  him  an  absorbed  study,  so  intimate  seemed  his 
acquaintance  with  mother  earth;  and  both  oi'  these  impres- 
sions were  in  turn  dispelled  \\iien  he  talked  of  the  ocean 
like  a  sailor,  of  the  conrting-house  like  a  merchant,  of 
Paris  like  a  man  of  fashion  ai.d  the  world.  In  the  mean- 
time she  walked  beside  him.  silent  but  not  unnoticed:  for. 
a^  they  approached  a  ro-.iLih  a,.:i  steep  ascent,  he  offered 
his  arm,  and  expressed  :;  fear  lest  t-he  should  beci-nu 
fatigued.  j)r.  Joiemv  declared  li's  belief  that  Gertv  ;'O"I<! 
outwalk  them  both;  and,  thus  satisiied,  Mr.  Phillip*  re 


244  Tin-:  LMiPi. 

sumed  the  broken  thr>-ad  of  their  discourse,  into  which 
(lertrude  was  drawn  alniosi  unawares, 

31  r.  1'hiliips  IK:  longer  seemed  in  (.Yrtrude's  eyes  a 
stranger— he  was  a  mystery,  but,  not;  a  forbidding  one. 
She  longed  to  lea.-n  the  history  of  a  life  which  many  an 
incident  of  his  o\vn  narrating  proved  to  have  been  made 
up  of  strange  and  mirgled  experience;  especially  did  hei 
sympathetic  nature  d<  ;ire  10  i'aihom  the  cause  of  that  deep- 
seated  melancholy  whi<'h  ^hauowcd  and  darkened  his  noble 
countenance,  and  made  his.  very  -mile  a  sorrowful  thing, 
Dr.  Jeremy,  who  Chared  Ivr  curiosity,  a.-ked  a.  fe\v  ques- 
tions, in  he. pea  to  obtain  Pome  i-hie  10  his  new  friend's 
hisi.ory;  but  in  Vain.  Mr.  Tini'ips'  l:ps  wei-e  sealed  on  the 
subject. 

The  doctor  now  i'cH  (,vrv  we;;i-r,  a;id  Beating  themselves 
by  t!ie  roadside,  they  awaited  the  arrival  of  lh"  coach. 
There  had  been  a  short  siieni  e,  when  the  doctor,  l«.'oking 
at  (Jertrude,  remarked,  "''  Tii-re  \vill  be  no  church  for  us 
t(»-morro\v,  Clerty." 

"  Xo  church,''  exclaimed  dcrty,  gating  about  her  with  a 
Jook  of  reverence:  "  how  run  you  -ay  so?" 

31  r.  Phillips  smiled, ;'.nd  said  in  a  peculiar  tone,  "There 
is  no  Sunday  here,  31:ss  Flint:  it  doesn't  come  up  so  high/'' 

He  spoke  lightly— too  iigiit'y,  (iertrude  thought — and 
she  replied  with  some  seriousness  and  much  sweetness,  "I 
have  often  rejoiced  that  the  Sabbath  has  been  sent  tlcni'n 
into  the  loit'rr  earth;  tiu;-  higher  we  go  tlie  nearer  we  coiufl, 
1  tru-st,  to  the  eternal  Subbatli." 

.Mr.  I'hillips  bit  his  lip.  and  turned  away  without  r*>- 
plying.  T.iiere  was  an  expression  n1>out  his  month  which 
(iertrudo  did  not  like;  I,;;;  e-he  could  not  find  it  in  hei 
heai'L  to  reproach  hint  for  the  slight  sneer  wh:ch  his  man- 
ner, rather  than  his  look,  implied  :  for  as  he  gaxed  a  moment 
or  two  int ••>  vacancy  'hero  was  in  his  absent  eounteiianei; 
such  a  look  of  sorrow  tb -it  she  could  only  pity  and  wonder. 
The  coaches  now  can,'-'  up,  wild,  as  he  placed  her  in  her 
fanner  seal,,  lie  resumed  til-  wonted  se;vno  and  kind  ex- 
pression,  and  she  ;V;;  rcnvin-'f'd  thaf.  it  was  <>i\]\,'  doing 
JMSti'-u  to  his  frank  iind  open  I'a  ••  to  b(.-)icv«.>  that  nothing 
wa-  hid  lie  hind  it  t  ;Kif  ^  •  i  i  ;  t:ol  <io  ijonour  to  the  man. 

An  hour  trough  '  >  i, ••  •  M'Mii.t;iiM  Iun;.<e,  and  to 

their  joy  thev  wen  . ',  ••',  (.»  .-nm-  of  tli<:  most  excellent 
room~  the  hotel  ailonl>jd.  tadt-rtriutc  stood  at  the  win- 


TI1K  LAMP  Li  CUTER. 

dow  of  the  chamber  allotted  to  herself  ind  Emily,  and 
heard  the  loud  murmurs  of  some  of  her  fellow-travellers 
who  were  denied  any  tolerable  accommodation,  she  could 
not  but  be  astonished  at  Dr.  Jeremy's  unusual  good  for- 
tune, Emily,  being  greatly  fatigued  with  the  toilsome 
journey,  had  supper  brought  to  her  own  room,  and  Ger- 
trude partaking  of  it  Avith  her,  neither  of  them  sought 
other  society  that  night,  but  at  tin  early  hour  went  to  rest. 
The  last  thing  that  Gertrude  heard  before  falling  asleep 
was  the  voice  of  Dr.  Jeremy  saying,  as  he  passed  their  door, 
"Take  care,  Gerty,  and  be  up  in  time  to  see  the  sun  rise.'' 

But  she  was  not  up  in  time,  nor  was  the  doctor;  neither 
of  them  had  calculated  upon  the  sun  being  such  an  early 
riser;  and  though  Gertrude  sprang  up  almost  before  her 
eyes  were  open,  a  flood  of  daylight  was  pouring  in  at  the 
window,  and  a  scene  met  her  gaze,  which  banished  regret 
at  having  overslept  herself,  since  nothing,  she  thought, 
could  be  more  glorious  than  that  which  now  lay  outspread 
before  her. 

Far  out  to  the  distant  horizon  nothing  was  to  be  seen 
but  a  sea  of  snowy  cloud.-,  which  wholly  overshadowed  the 
lower  earth  and  hid  it  from  view.  Vast,  solid,  and  of  the 
most  perfect  whiteness,  they  stretched  on  every  side, form- 
ing, as  they  lay  in  thick  masses,  between  which  not  a 
crevice  was  discernible,  an  unbroken  curtain,  dividing  the 
heavens  from  the  earth.  The  foliage  of  the  oaks,,  the 
pines,  and  the  maples,  which  had  found  root  ill  this  .lofty 
region,  was  rich  in  varied  hues,  and  tame  and  fearless  birds 
of  various  note  were  singing  in  the  branches  Gertrude 
gave  one  long  look,  then  hastened  to  dress  herself  and  go 
out  upon  the  platform. 

She  was  soon  joined  by  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Jeremy,  the  former 
full  of  life,  and  dragging  forward  his  reluctant,  sleepy 
partner,  whose  countenance  proclaimed  how  unwillingly 
she  hai  forgone  her  morning  nap.  The  doctor  rubbed  his 
hands  as  they  joined  Gertrude.  "  Very  fine,  this,  Gerty! 
A  touch  beyond  anything  I  Juid  calculated  upon,"  Gertrude 
turned  upon  him  her  beaming  eyes,  but  did  not  speak. 

The  doctor  stepped  to  the  edge  of  the  flat  rock  upon 
which  they  stood,  placed  his  hands  beneath  his  coat  tails, 
and  indulged  in  a  soliloquy,  ma.de  up  of  short  exclamations 
and  mterjectiorml  phrases,  expressive  of  his  approbation. 

-*  Why,  this  looks  queer,  doesn't,  it,  V"  suid    Mrs.   .Jeremy^ 


24:6  T!TK  LAMPLIGHTER. 

ruM'ing  her  ^y's,  a  nd  ^a/jn^  ubouf  her;  ''but  T  daresay  it 
\\oiild  In1  just  so  in  hour  or  two  hence.  I  don't  see  vvtiat 
tin'  doctor  would  make  me  get  \\\i  so  ^ai'lv  'or."  Then  sha 
darted  forward,  exclaiming,  "  I  )r.  .leremy.  for  merev's 
sake,  don't  stand  -o  near  the  edge  of  that  precipice!  Why, 
ure  you  cra/.y,  man  ?  You  frighten  aie  io  death!  You'll 
fall  over  and  nreak  vou  r  neck  !  " 

Finding  the  doctor  deaf  to  her  entreaties,  Mrs.  Jeremy 
£rew  so  disturbed  '^\  his  dangerous  position  that,  looking 
most  imploringly  at  (lertrude,  she  begged  her  to  get  the 
doctor  away,  for  the  poor  man  was  so  venturesome  he  would 
surelv  be  killed. 

''Suppose  we  explore  that  little  path  at  the  right  of  the 
house,"  suggest ed  (Jentrudo;  "'it.  looks  attractive." 

'*' So  it  does,"  sui;i  All's,  Jcremv;  "'beautiful  little  shady 
]>ath.  Come.  doct(*r,  (Icrty  and  I  are  going  to  walk  up 
here — come! ' 

The  doctor  looked  in  the  direction  in  which  siie  pointed. 

"Ah!"  said  he,  "  that  is  the  path  the  man  at  the  office 
spoke  about;  it  leads  up  io  the  pine  gardens.  We'll  climb 
up,  by  all  means,  and  sec  what  sort  of  u  place  it  is." 

Gertrude  led  the  way.  ill  walking  in  single  tile,  for  the 
path  was  a  mere  fool-track.  The  ascent  was  very  steep, 
and  they  had  not  proceeded  far  before  Mrs.  Jeremy,  punt- 
ing with  heat  and  fatigue,  stopped  short,  and  declared  her 
inability  to  reach  Lhe  top;  she  would  no!  have  come  if  sl'o 
had  known  what  a  hard  hill  she  would  have  to  climb. 
Encouraged  and  assisted  bv  her  husliand  and  (lertrudt1,  she 
"was  induced  to  make  a  further  attempt;  and  thev  had 
gone  on  some  di-tance,  when  (iertrude,  who  was  some  steps 
in  advance,  heard  Mrs.  Jcrrjuv  give  a  slight  scream.  She 
looked  back;  the  doctor  was  laughing  heartily,  but  his  wife, 
consternation,  was  trying  to  pass 
p-  down  the  hill. 


"why,   this  hill    is  cov- 
here we  are  all  going  up  to  be 


ing  herself,  in  spite  of  her  fuiirs;  "  ii'  there's  been  one,  there 


THK  r.A 

may  be  another;  and  T  won't  stay  :i  minute  longer!  I 
thought  it  was  :i  b;id  enough  place  before,  and  now  1  uni 
going  down  faster  than  I  came  up." 

Finding  her  determined,  the  doctor  hastened  to  accom- 
pany her,  calling  to  Gertrude  and  assuring  her  chore  was  no 
clanger,  and  begging  her  wait  for  him  at  the  top  of  the  lull, 
where  he  would  join  her  after  he  left  his  wife  in  safety  at 
tiie  hotel.  Gertrude,  therefore,  went  on  alone.  For  the 
first  few  yards  she  looked  about  her,  and  thought  of  rattle- 
snakes ;  but  the  path  was  so  well  worn  that  she  felt  sure  r; 
must  be  often  trod,  and  was  probably  safe;  and  the  beauty 
of  the  place  engrossed  all  her  attention.  After  active 
climbing,  she  reached  the  highest  point  of  ground,  and 
found  herself  once  more  on  the  elevated  platform,  from 
which  she  could  look  forth  upon  the  unbroken  sea  of 
clouds. 

She  seated  herself  at  the  foot  of  an  immense  pine-tree, 
removed  her  bonnet,  for  she  was  warm  from  recent  exer- 
cise ;  and  she  inhaled  the  refreshing  mountain  breeze.  She 
had  sat  thus  but  a  moment  when  a  slight  rustling  noise 
startled  her;  she  remembered  the  rattlesnakes,  and  was 
springing  to  her  feet  ;  but  hearing  a  low  sound,  as  of  some 
one  breathing,  turned  her  eves  in  the  direction  from  which 
it  came,  and  saw,  only  a  few  yards  from  he1*,  the  figure  of 
a  man  stretched  upon  the  ground,  apparently  asleep.  She 
went  towards  it  with  a  careful  step,  and  before  she  could 
see  the  face,  the  large  straw  hat  and  the  long,  blanched, 
wavy  hair  betrayed  the  identity  of  the  individual.  ]\Ir. 
Phillips  was.  or  appeared  to  be,  sleeping;  his  head  was  pil- 
lowed upon  his  arm,  his  eves  were  closed,  and  his  attitude 
denoted  perfect  repose.  Gertrude  stood  still  and  looked  at 
him.  As  she  did  so,  his  countenance  suddenly  changed ; 
the  peaceful  expression  gave  puire  to  the  same  unhappy 
look  which  had  at  h'rst  excited  her  sympathy.  Jlis  lips 
moved,  and  in  his,  dreams  he  spoke,  or  rather  shouted, 
"2so!  no!  no!"  each  time  that  he  repeated  the  word 
pronouncing  it  with  more  emphasis;  then  wildlv  throwing 
one  arm  above  his  head  ho  let  it  fall  heavily  upon  the 
ground,  and,  the  excitement  subsiding  from  his  face,  he 
uttered  the  simply  words.  "Oh.  <!<  "/•'''  much  as  a  grieved 
and  tired  child  might  do  as  he  leans  his  head  upon  his 
mother's  knee. 

Gertrude  was  deeply  tonchecl.     Sho  forgot  that  he  was 


248  TTIK  LAMPLIGHTER 

a  stranger  ;  she  only  saw  a  sufferer.  An  insect  lit 
upon  his  fair,  open  forehead;  she  leaned  over  him,  brushed 
it  away,  and,  as  she  did  so,  one  of  her  tears  fell  upon  his 
cheek.  He  awoke,  and  looked  full  in  the  face  of  the 
embarrassed  girl,  who  started,  and  would,  have  hastened 
awav;  hut,  leaning  on  his  elbow,  he  caught  her  hand  and 
detained  her.  lie  gazed  at-  her  a  moment  without  speak- 
ing ;  then  said,  in  a  grave  voice,  •'  My  child,  did  you  shed 
that  tear  for  me?  " 

She  did  not  reply,  except  by  her  eyes,  which  were  still 
glistening  with  the  dew  of  sympathy. 

'"I  believe  yon  did,"  said  lie,  "and  from  my  heart  I  bless 
yon!  But  never  again  wee})  for  a  stranger.  You  will  have 
woi's  enough  of  vour  own  if  you  live  to  be  my  age." 

''  If  J  had  not  had  sorrows,"  said  Gertrude,  "  I  should 
not  know  how  to  feel  for  others  ;  if  1  had  not  often  wept 
for  myself  I  should  not  weep  now  for  you." 

"  But  you  are  happy  ?" 

"'Yes." 

"Some  find  it  easy  to  forget  the  past." 

"  /  have  not  forgotten  it." 

"Children's  griefs  are  trifles,  and  you  are  still  scarce 
more  than  a  child." 

"  I  iifirr  was  a  child,"  said  Gertrude. 

"Strange  girl!"  soliloquised  her  companion.  "  Will  you 
sit  down  and  talk  with  me  a  few  minutes?" 

Gertrude  hesitated. 

"  Do  not  refuse  ;  I  am  an  old  man,  and  very  harmless. 
Take  a  seat  here  under  this  tree,  and  tell  me  what  you  think 
of  t  he  prospect." 

Gertrude  smiled  inwardly  at  the  idea  of  his  being  such 
an  old  man,  and  culling  her  a  child  ;  but.  old  or  young, 
she  hud  it  not  in  her  heart' to  fear  him,  or  refuse  his  request. 
She  sat  down,  and  he  seated  himself  beside  her,  but  did  not 
speak  of  t  he  prospect .  or  of  an  vt lung,  for  a  moment  or  two; 
then  turning  to  her  abruptly,  he  said,  "  So  you  never  were 
unhappv  in  your  life  ?  " 

"Never?'"  exclaimed  Gertrude.      "Oh,  yes;  often." 

"'  But  never  lung  ?  '' 

"Ye-,  I  can  remember  whole  vears  when  happiness  was  a 
thin!!  I  had  never  even  dreamed  of.'' 

"  But  comfort  came  at  last,.  What  do  you  think  of  those 
to  whom  it  never  comes  ?  '' 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  249 

jfl  know  enough  of  sorrow  to  pity  and  wish  to  help 
them." 

"  What  can  you  do  for  them  ?" 

"  tfw/ic  for  them — pray  for  them!"  said  Gertrude,  with  a 
voice  full  of  feeling. 

"  What  if  they  be  past  hope — beyond  the  influence  of 
prayer  ? " 

"  There  are  no  such,"  paid  Gertrude,  with  decision. 

"  Do  you  sec,"  said  Mr.  Phillips:,  "this  curtain  of  thick 
clouds,  now  overshadowing  the  world  ?  Even  so  many  a 
heart  is  weighed  down  and  overshadowed  by  thick  and 
impenetrable  darkness." 

-'  But  the  light  shines  brightly  above  the  clouds,"  said 
Gertrude. 

"Above!  well,  that  may  be;  but  what  avails  it  to  those 
who  see  it  not  ?" 

"  It  is  sometimes  a  weary  and  toilsome  road  that  leads  to 
the  mountain-top;  but  the  pilgrim  is  well  repaid  for  the 
trouble  which  brings  him  abuce  the  clouds"  replied  Ger- 
trude, with  enthusiasm. 

"  Few  ever  find  the  road  that  leads  so  high,"  responded 
her  melancholy  companion;  u  and  those  who  do  cannot 
live  long  in  so  elevated  an  atmosphere.  They  must  come 
down  from  their  height,  and  again  dwell  among  the  com- 
mon herd;  again  mingle  in  the  warfare  with  the  mean,  the 
base,  and  tl*e  cruel." 

"  But  they  have  seen  the  glory;  they  know  that  the  light 
is  ever  burning  on  high,  and  will  have  faith  to  believe  it 
will  pierce  the  gloom  at  last.  See,  see,"  said  she,  her  eyes 
glowing  with  the  fervour  with  which  she  spoke — "  even  now 
the  heaviest  clouds  are  pin-ting;  the  sun  will  soon  lijjfht  up 
the  valley!" 

She  pointed  as  she  spoke  to  a  wide  fissure  which  was  grad  • 
ually  disclosing  itself,  as  the  hitherto  solid  mass  of  elouds 
separated  on  either  side,  and  then  turned  to  the  strange/ 
to  see  if  he  observed  the  change;  but,  with  the  same  smile 
npon  bis  unmoved  countenance,  he  was  watching,  not  the 
display  of  nature  in  the  distance,  but  that  close  at  his  idc. 
He  was  gazing  with  intense  interest  upon  the  young  and 
ardent  worshipper  of  the  beautiful  and  the  true:  and,  in 
studying  her  features  and  observing  the  play  of  her  coun- 
tenance, be  seemed  so  wholly  absorbed  that  Gertrude — 
believing  he  was  not  listening  to  her  words,  but  had  fallen 


Tin:  LAMPUGIJTRH.    ' 

imo  one  of  his  absent  moods — ceased  speaking,  rather 
abruptly,  and  was  turning  away,  when  lie  said  — 

"Go  on,  happy  child!  Teach  )/!>',  if  vou  can,  to  see  the 
worUl  tinged  with  the  rosy  colouring  it  wears  for  t/mi; 
teach  me  to  love  and  pity  as  you  do  that  miserable  thing 
called  t/i an.  I  warn  you  that  yon  have  a  difficult  task,  but 
you  seem  to  be  very  hopeful." 

"  Do  you  hate  the  world  '? ''  asked  Gertrude,  with  straight- 
:orward  simplicity. 

"Almost,"  was  Mr.  Phillips'  answer. 

''  /  did  once,''  said  Gertruue,  musingly. 

"And  will  again,  perhaps." 

"  No,  that  would  be  impossible;  it  has  been  a  good  foster 
mother  to  its  orphan  child,  and  now  1  love  it  dearly.'' 

"  Have  they  been  kind  to  you  ?"  asked  lie,  with  eager- 
ness. "Have  heartless  strangers  deserved  the  love  you 
seem  to  feel  for  them  ?" 

"  Heartless  strangers! "  exclaimed  Gertrude,  the  tears 
rushing  to  her  eyes.  ''  Oh,  sir,  1  wish  you  could  have  known 
my  Uncle  True,  and  Emily,  dear,  blind  Kmily!  you  would 
think  better  of  the  world  for  their  sakes." 

"Tell  me  about  them."  said  he,  and  he  looked  fixedly 
down  into  the  precipice  which  yawned  at  his  feet. 

"There  is  not  much  to  tell,  only  that  one  was  old  and 
poor,  and  the  other  wholly  blind;  and  yet  they  made  every- 
thing rich,  and  bright,  and  beautiful  to  me  — a  pool',  deso- 
late, injured  child." 

"Injured!  Then  you  acknowledge  that  you  had  pre- 
vions'v  met  with  wrong  and  injustice  ?  " 

"  I!  "exclaimed  Gertrude;  "  my  earliest  recollections  ari) 
only  of  want,  suffering,  and  much  unkindness." 

"  And  these  friends  took  pity  on  you  '•;  " 

"  Yes.  One  became  an  earthly  father  to  me,  and  the 
/tiier  taught  me  where  to  find  a  heavenly  one." 

"  And  ever  since  then  you  have  been  iree  and  light  as 
air,  without  a  wish  or  care  in  the  world." 

"  No,  indeed,  I  did  not  say  so—  I  do  not  mean  so,"  said 
Gertrude.  "I  have  had  to  part  from  I'liele  True,  and  to 
give  up  other  dear  friends,  some  for  years  and  sonic  forever; 
1  have  had  many  trials,  many  lonely,  solitary  hours,  and 
even  now  am  oppressed  by  more  than  one  subject  of  unx- 
A-ty  and  dread." 


TIJK  LAMPLIGHTER.  251 

"How,  then,  so  cheerful  and  happv?"  asked  Mr. 
Phillips. 

Gertrude  h;ul  risen,  for  she  saw  Dr.  Jeremy  approaching. 
She  smiled  at  Mr.  Phillips' question;  and  after  looking  into 
the  dee])  valley  beneath  her,  gave  him  a  look  of  holy  faith, 
and  .--aid,  in  a  low  hut  fervent  tone,  "I  see  the  gulf  yawn- 
jing  beneath  me.  but  I  lean  upon  the  Rock  of  Ages." 

Gertrude  had  spoken  truly  when  she  said  that  more  than 
one  anxiety  and  dread  oppressed  her  ;  for,  mingled  with  a 
fear  lest  the  time  was  fast  approaching  when  Emily  would 
he  taken  from  her.  she  had  of  late  been  grieved  hy  the 
thought  that  Willie  Sullivan,  towards  whom  her  heart 
yearned  with  more  than  a  sister's  love,  was  forgetting  the 
friend  of  his  childhood,  or  ceasing  to  regard  her  with  the 
love  of  former  years  It  was  now  some  months  since  she  had 
received  a  letter  from  India;  the  last  was  short,  and  written 
in  a  haste  which  AVillie  apologised  for  on  the  score  of  busi- 
ness duties;  and  Gertrude  was  compelled  unwillingly  to 
admit  the  chilling  presentiment  that,  now  that  his  mother 
and  grandfather  were  no  more,  the  ties  which  bound  the 
exile  to  his  native  home  were  sensiblv  weakened. 

Nothing  would  have  induced  her  to  hint,  even  to  Emily, 
a  suspicion  of  neglect  on  Willie's  part;  nothing  would  have 
shocked  her  more  than  hearing  such  neglect  imputed  to 
him  by  another;  and  still,  in  the  depths  of  her  heart,  she 
sometimes  reused  with  wonder  upon  his  long  silence,  and 
his  strange  diminution  of  intercourse  between  herself  and 
him.  During  several  weeks,  in  which  she  had  received  no 
tidings,  she  had  still  continued  to  write  as  usual,  and  felt 
sure  that  such  reminders  must  have  reached  him  by  every 
mail.  What,  then,  but  illness  or  indifference  could  excuse 
nis  never  replying  to  her  faithfully-despatched  missives? 

Dr.  Jeremy's  approach  was  the  signal  for  hearty  congratu- 
lations between  himself  and.  Mr.  Phillips  :  the  doctor  began 
to  converse  in  his  animated  manner,  spoke  with  heartv  de- 
right  of  the  beauty  and  peace!' illness  of  that  bright  Sabbath 
morning  in  the  mountains  ;  and  Mr.  Phillips,  compelled  to 
exert  himself  and  conceal  the  gloom  which  weighed  upon 
nis  mind,  talked  with  an  ease,  and  even  playfulness,  which 
Astonished  Gertrude,  who  walked  back  to  the  house  won- 
dering at  this  strange  and  inconsistent  man.  She  did  not 
see  him  at  breakfast,  aud  ut  dinner  he  sat  at  some  distance 


252  THK  lAlfPUCIllTEll. 

from  Tn\  Jeremy's  pa>-ty,  and   men  ly  gave  :i  graceful  salu- 
tation to  Gertrude  as  she  left  the  (lining-hall. 

The  Jeremvs  slaved  two  days  longer  at  the  Mountain 
House  ;  the  invigorating  air  benefited  Kmilv.  who  appeared 
stronger  than  she  had  done  for  weeks  past,  and  was  able  to 
take  many  a  little  stroll  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  house. 
Gertrude  "was  never  weary  of  the  glorious  prospect  ;  and  an* 
exeursion  which  she  and  the  doctor  made  on  foot  to  the 
i-left  in  the  heart  of  the  mountain,  where  a  narrow  stream 
leaps  a  distance  of  two  hundred  feet  into  the  valley  below, 
furnished  the  theme  for  many  a  descriptive  reverie,  of 
which  Kmilv  reaped  a  part  of  the  enjoyment.  They  saw 
no  more  of  their  new  acquaintance,  who  had  disappeared. 
Dr.  .Jeremy  inquired  of  their  host  concerning  him,  and 
learned  that  he  left  at  an  early  hour  on  Monday,  and  took 
up  a  pedestrian  course  down  the  mountain.  The  doctor 
was  disappointed,  for  he  liked  Mr.  Phillips  much,  and  had 
Mattered  himself,  from  some  particular  inquiries  he  had 
made  concerning  their  proposed  route,  that  he  had  an  idea 
of  attaching  himself  to  their  party. 

'•  .Never  mind,  Gertie,"  said  he,  "  I  daresav  we  shall  come 
across  him  yet  some  time  when  we  least  expect  it." 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

TIJK    INVISIBLE    CHARM. 

FKOM  Catskill  Dr.  Jeremy  proceeded  directly  to  Saratoga. 

The  place  was  crowded  with  visitors,  for  the  season  was  at 
its  height,  and  the  improvident  travellers  having  neglected 
to  secure  rooms,  they  had  no  right  to  expect  anv  accommo- 
dat  ion. 

"\\here  do  you  propose  stopping?"  inquired  an  ac- 
quaintance of  the  doctor's,  whom  they  met  in  the  cars. 

"  At  Congress  Hail."  was  the  reply.  "  It  will  be  a  quiet 
plaee  for  us  old  folks,  and  more  agreeable  than  any  other 
house  to  Miss  Graham,  who  is  an  invalid.'' 

"  ^1  oil  are  expect  ei  1.    I   conclude  ?  " 

"  Expected? — Xo;  who  should  be  expecting  us?" 


TrTK  LAMPLIGHTER.  253 

"  Your  landlord.  If  yon  have  not  engaged  room?  you 
will  fare  badlv.  for  every  hotel  is  crowded." 

"We  must  take  our  chance  then,"  said  the  doctor,  with 
indifference;  but  arriving  at  his  destination,  he  found  his 
friend's  words  were  true. 

"  I  don't  know  what  we  arc  going  to  do,"  said  ho3  as  he 
joined  the  ladies:  they  say  every  house  is  full;  and,  if  so, 
weM  bettor  take  the  next  train  of  curs  and  be  off,  for  we 
can't  sleep  in  the  street." 

"  Carriage,  sir!'"  shouted  a  cabman,  n  few  steps  distant, 
and  beckoning  to  the  doctor,  while  another  tapped  hit 
shoulder,  and  made  a  similar  suggestion. 

"  Carriage  !  "  repeated  the  doctor,  angrily.  "  What  for  ? 
where  would  you  carry  us,  for  mercy's  sake?  There  isn't  a 
garret  to  be  had  in  your  town,  for  love  or  money." 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  the  last  petitioner,  "  the  houses  arc 
pretty  full  just  no\v,  to  be  sure,  but  may  be  you  can  get  col- 
onised out." 

"  Coto/n'xed  out  /"  said  the  doctor,  in  a  tone  of  vexation. 
"  That's  what  I  think  we  are  already;  what  I  want  is  to  get 
///  somewhere.  Where  do  you  usually  drive  your  coach  ?" 

"To  Congress  Hall." 

"  Drive  up,  then,  and  let  ns  get  in  ;  aiid,  mind,  if  they 
don't  take  us  at  Congress  Ifall,  we  shall  expect  you  to  keep 
us  until  we  find  accommodation." 

Mrs.  Jeremy,  Emily,  and  Gertrude  were  assisted  into  a 
small  omnibus.  The  doctor  took  a  seat  on  the  outride,  and, 
the  moment  the  vehicle  stopped,  hastened  to  the  landlord. 
There  was  not  a  vacant  corner  in  the  house.  Wishing  to 
accommodate  him.  the  office-keeper  said  that  he  might  be 
able  before  night  to  furnish  him  with  one  room  in  a  house 
in  the  next  street. 

"One  room!  in  the  next  street!  "  cried  the  doctor.  "Ah. 
that's  being  colonised  out,  is  it?  Well,  sir,  it  won't  do  foi 
me;  I  must  ha\e  a  place  to  put  my  ladies  in  at  once.  Why, 
in  conscience,  don't  you  have  hotels  enough  for  your 
Visitors  ?  " 

"  It  is  the  height  of  the  season, 

"Why,   l)r.  Jeremy!"  exHain; 
Netta  Grvseworth,  who  was  p;i--i: 
her   graiidmnt  i.er.      "  I  low     do     \ 
Graham  and   Miss  Flint    with 
Stay  ?  " 


L>;>i  TIIK  L.\  MI  WHITER. 

Before  (he  doctor  could  answer  her  questions  and  pay  his 
respects  to  Madam  (iryseworth,  a  venerable  old  lady  whom 
he  had  known  for  thirty  years,  the  landlord  of  the  hotel 
accosted  him.  "  Dr.  .Jeremy:""  said  he.  '•  Kxcu.se,  me,  I 
did  not  know  you.  Dr.  .Jeremy,  of  Boston  ?  " 

•'The  same,"  said  the  doctor,  bowing. 

"  Ah.  we  -are  all  right,  then.  Your  rooms  u.e  -eserved. 
and  will  he  made  ready  in  a  few  minutes;  they  were  vacated 
';wo  days  ago,  and  have  not  been  occupied  since." 

'•  What  is  all  this?''  exclaimed  the  honest  doctor.  "  * 
engaged  no  rooms." 

"A  friend  did  it  for  you,  (hen.  sir  ;  a  fortunate  circum- 
stance,  especiallv  as  yon  have  ladies  with  you.  Saratoga  is 
very  crowded  at  this  season;  there  were  seven  thousand 
stranger  in  the  town  yesterday." 

The  doctor  thanked  his  unknown  friend,  and  summoned 
the  ladies  to  enjoy  their  good  fortune. 

"  \\  liv.  now.  ain't  we  lucky  •*  '*'  said  Mrs.  .Joremv.  as  she 
glanced  around  the  coin  for!  aide  room  allot  ted  to  herself,  and 
then  she  took  a  survey  of  Kmil  v's  and  (  lert  rude's  apartment  . 

The  doctor,  having  attended  to  the  baggage,  approached 
the  door  and  heard  his  wife's  last  remark,  and  entering 
with  his  linger  on  his  lip.  exclaimed,  in  a  low  voice, 
"Hush  !  hush  !  don't  sav  too  much  about  it!  \Ve  are 
profiting  by  a  glorious  mistake  on  the  part  of  our  good 
landlord.  These  rooms  were  engaged  for  somebody,  that's 
certain,  but  not  for  us.  However,  they  can't  do  no  more 
than  turn  us  out  when  the  right  folks  come,  and  until 
then  we  have  a  pro-peel,  of  verv  good  lodgings.'' 

But  if  they  were  not  the  'right  folks,  the  right  folks 
never  came,  and,  in  the  course  of  a  week,  our  partv  not 
on  Iv  ceased  to  be  con>cious  of  their  precarious,  fooling  in 
the  house,  but  obtained  a  favourable  exmanu'c  for  Kmilv 
to  a  bedroom  uon  the  lir.-t  lloor,  which  oened  direct!*,' 

up 


u  had  arrived,  ami  liearin 


ir  arrival,  and 
ir  loilet,  when 
rt  rude  opened 


from  the  cbumbcr- 


THK  LAMrLIGIlTKn.  255 


maid  that  you  had  the  next  room  to  mine,  I  could  not 
forbear  stopping  a  moment  as  I  parsed  lo  tell  you  how  very 
glad  I  am  to  ?oe  you  again.'' 

Gertrude  and  'Emily  expressed  their  pleasure  at  the 
meeting,  urged  her  to  come  in  and  remain  until  the  gong 
sounded  for  tea.  She  accepted  the  invitation,  and,  tak- 
ing a  seat  upon  the  nearest  trunk,  inquired  concerning 
their  travels  and  Emily's  health  since  they  parted  at  West 
Point. 

Among  other  adventures,  Gertrude  mentioned  then 
hpving  again  encountered  Mr.  Phillips.  "  Indeed  I"  said 
Miss  Gryseworth  ;  "  he  seems  to  be  an  ubiquitous  indivi- 
dual. He  was  in  Saratoga  a  day  or  two  ago,  and  sat  oppo- 
site to  me  at  our  dinner-table,  but  I  have  not  seen  him 
since.  Did  vou  become  acquainted  with  him,  Miss  Gra- 
ham ?  " 

"I  am  sorry  to  say  I  did  not,"  replied  Emily;  then, 
looking  smilingly  at  Gertrude,  she  added,  "  Gerty  was  so 
anxious  for  an  opportunity  to  introduce  me  that  I  was 
quite  grieved  for  her  disappointment/' 

"  Then  you  liked  him?"  Miss  Gryseworth  asked  Ger- 
trude, and  speaking  with  great  earnestness.  "  1  knew  you 

Would." 

"  He  interested  me  much,"  replied  Gertrude.  "He  is 
very  agreeable,  very  peculiar,  and  to  me  rather  incompre- 
hensible." 

"  Non-committal,  T  see,"  said  Miss  Gryseworth,  archly. 
"  I  hope  you  will  have  a  chance  to  make  up  your  mind  ;  it 
is  more  than  I  can  do,  1  confess,  for  every  time  1  am  in  his 
company  I  recognise  some  new  trait  of  character.  He  got 
so  angry  at  one  of  the  waiters  the  day  he  dined  with  us,  in 
New  York,  that  I  was  frightened.  Hut  I  believe  my  Fears 
were  groundless,  for  he  is  too  much  of  a  gentleman  to 
bandy  words  with  an  inferior,  and  though  his  eves  Hashed 
like  coals  of  tire,  lie  kept  his  Lemper  from  bla/ing  forth.  J 
will  do  him  tin1  justice  to  savthat  this  great  indignation 
did  not  spring  from  any  neglect  he  had  himself  received, 
but  from  the  man's  inattention  to  two  dowdy-looking 
women  from  the  country,  who  had  ne\vr  thought  of  seeing 
hiiii.  and  therefore  uot,  nothing  to  enl  until  e\rrvbodv  el.-e 
had  finished,  and  looked  aii  the  time  ;is  disappointed  as  if 
they  were  just  out  of  the  State  Prison." 

"Too   bad!"  exclaimed    Gertrude,   energetically.       "I 


TUF.    LAMPLIGHTER. 

d'  n't  wonder  Mr.  Phillips  felt  provoked  with  the  mercen- 
ary fellow.  1  like  him  for  that.'' 

'''It  wax  too  bad."  said  Miss  (iryseworth;  "I  couldn't 
help  pitying  them  myself.  One  of  them — a  young  girl, 
fresh  from  the  churn,  who  had  worn  her  best,  white  gown 
on  purpose  to  make  a  figure  in  the  citv — was  near  weeping.'' 

"  I  hope  such  instances  of  neglect  are  not  very  common,' 
M»id  (Icrtrude.  "I  am  afraid,  if  they  are,  Kmily  and  I 
shall  be  on  the  crving  list,  for  I)r.  Jeremy  will  not  fee  the. 
waiters  beforehand;  he  says  it  is  a  mean  thing,  and  he 
will  not  command  attention  in  that  wav." 

"''  Oh.  vou  need  have  no  such  reaiy"  said  Miss  (iryseworth. 
"  Persons  accusi omed  to  hotel  life  can  always  command 
attention,  especially  in  po  well-regulated  an  establishment 
as  this.  Grandmamma  shares  the  dootor's  views  with  re- 
gard to  bargaining  for  it  beforehand,  but  no  one  ever  sees 
her  neglected  here.'' 

Another  light  tap  at  the  door,  and  this  time  it  was  Xetta 
(iryseworth  who  entered,  exclaiming,  "I  hear  FJien'syoiee, 
so  I  must  come  in.  1  am  provoked."  added  she.  as  she 
kis-ed  Fmily's  hand,  and  shook  flertrude's  with  a  freedom 
which  seemed  to  spring  from  girlish  hoydenisrn  and  high- 
bred independence  of  manner,  "  to  think  that,  while  I  have 
been  watching  about  the  drawing-room  doors  for  this  last 
half-hour,  so  as  to  see  you  the  first  minute  you  came  in. 
Kllen  has  been  sitting  here  on  a  trunk,  as  sociable  as  all 
the  world,  enjoying  your  society,  and  telling  you  every  bit 
of  the  news.'' 

"  Not  every  bit.  Xetta,"  said  Kllen;  "  I  have  left  several 
choice  little  morsels  for  you.'' 

"Have  you  told  Miss  Flint  about  the  Foxes  and  the 
Coxes  that  were  hen'  yesterday  ?--lIas  she.  Miss  Flint?" 

''  Not  a  word  about  them."  said  (iertrnde. 

'•  Nor  about  the  fright  we  had  on  board  the  steamboat?' 

"  No." 

"  Nor  about  Mr.  Phillips  being  here?" 

"Oh,  yes,  she  told  us  that," 

"Ah.  she  did!"  oxelaiun  d  N'etta.  with  an  arch  look 
which  called  up  her  sister's  hlii.-lie*.  "And  did  she  tell 
his  room,  and  how  \\  e  heard  him 


headache  all  the  next  dnv'.'" 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  25? 

"No,  she  did  not  tell  me  that,"  said  Gertrude. 
"  You  don't  either  of  you  walk  all  night,,  do  you  ?"  asked 
Netta. 

"  Not  often/' 

"  Oh,  how  thankful  we  ought  to  he  to  have  you  for  neigh- 
bours!" replied  Netta.  "If  that  horrible  man  had  stayed 
here  and  kept  up  that  measured  tread,  there  would  have 
been  a  suicide  either  in  this  room  or  ours  before  many 
nights." 

'"Do  you  think  he  was  ill  ?'"''  asked  Gertrude. 

"'No,  indeed,''  said  Ellen;  "  it  was  nothing  very  remark- 
able— not  for  him,  at  least — all  his  habits  are  peculiar,  but 
it  kept  Netta  awake  an  hour  or  two.  and  made  her  fidgety." 

"An  hour  or  two,  Ellen!''  cried  Netta.  "It  was  the 
whole  night." 

"  My  dear  sister,"  said  Ellen,  "you  don't  know  what  a 
whole  night  is." 

A  little  sisterlv  discussion  might  have  ensued  about  the 
length  of  Mr.  Phillips'  walk  and  Netta's  consequent  wake- 
fulness,  but,  fortunately,  thj  gong  sounded  for  tea. 

Saratoga  is  a  queer  place.  One  sees  congregated  there, 
at  the  height  of  the  season,  delegates  from  every  part  of  the 
world.  Fashion's  ladder  is  transplanted  thither,  and  all  its 
rounds  are  filled.  Beauty,  wealth,  pride,  and  folly  are  well 
represented  ;  also  wit,  genius,  and  learning.  Idleness 
reigns  supreme,  and  no  one.  not  even  the  most  active  and 
industrious  citizens  of  our  working  land,  dares,  in  this  Il- 
legitimate province,  to  dispute  her  temporary  sway.  Every 
rank  of  society,  every  profession,  and  almost  every  trade, 
meet  each  other  on  an  easy  and  friendly  footing.  The  ac- 
knowledged belle,  the  bearer  of  an  aristocratic  name,  the 
owner  of  a  well-filled  purse,  the  renowned  scholar,  artist, 
or  poet,  have  all  a  conspicuous  sphere  to  shine  in. 

It  was  a  new  experience  to  Gertrude,  and  although  in 
the  Congress  Hall  she  saw  only  the  reflection  of  San- toga 
gaiety,  and  heard  only  the  echo  of  its  distant  hum.  men. 
was  enough  of  novelty  and  excitement  to  entertain  and  sur- 
prise one  who  was  a  novice  in  fashionable  life.  In  the 
circle  of  high-bred,  polished,  literary,  and  talented  persons 
whom  Madam  ( iryseworth  drew  about  her,  and  into  whii'h 
Dr.  Jeremy's  party  were  ,:dmiiied,  <lertrude  found  much 
that  was  congenial  to  her  cultivated  taste,  and  she  ,-ooti 
was  appreciated  as  she  ck'Sc-i-ved.  Madam  Grysewurth 


258  THE  /.A.vri.i 

a  lady  of  the  old  school-  one  who  had  all  her  life  been  ac- 
customed io  the  best  society,  and  who  continued,  in  spite 
of  her  advanced  years,  to  enjoy  and  to  adorn  it.  For  the 
first  day  or  two  Mrs.  Jeremy  stood  much  in  awe  of  her,  and 
could  not  feel  quite  at  ea-e  in  her  presence;  but  this  feel- 
ing wore  off,  and  the  siout  little  doctor's  lady  soon  became 
confiding  and  chatty  towards  the  august  dame. 

One  evening,  when  the  Jeremvs  had  been  a  week  at  Sara- 
toga, as  Emilv  and  Gertrude  were  leaving  the  tea-table, 
they  were  joined  by  Xetta  Gryseworth,  who,  linking  her 
arm  in  Gertrude's,  exclaimed,  in  her  usual  gay  manner, 
''Gertrude.  I  shall  quarrel  with  you  soon!" 

"  Indeed!"  said  Gertrude;  "on  what  grounds  ?" 

"  Jealousy." 

Gertrude  blushed  slightly. 

"  Oh,  you  needn't  turn  so  red:  it  is  not  on  account  of 
any  grey-headed  gentleman  staring  at  you  all  dinner-time 
from  the  other  end  of  the  table.  Xo;  Fm  indifferent  on 
that  score.  Ellen  and  you  may  disagree  about  Mr.  Phillips' 
attentions,  but  I'm  jealous  of  those  of  another  person  " 

"I  hope  Gertrude  isn't  interfering  with  your  happiness 
in  any  way/'  said  Fmily,  smiling. 

"She  is,  though,"  replied  X'etta  "  My  happiness,  my 
pride,  my  comfort ;  she  is  undermining  them  all.  She  would 
not  dare  to  so  conduct  herself.  Miss  Graham,  if  you  could 
see  her  behaviour.1' 

"  Tell  me  all  about  it,''  .said  Emily,  coaxingly,  "  and  I 
•will  promise  to  interest  myself  for  you."' 

"I  doubt  that."  answered  Xetta;  ''I  am  not  sure  but 
you  are  a  coadjutor  with  her.  However,  [  will  state  my 
grievance.  Do  \on  not  se"  how  entirely  she  engrosses  the 
attention  oi  an  important  per-onage?  Are  vou  not  aware 
that  Peter  lias  eeased  to  have  eyes  for  anyone  else  ?  For 
my  own  part.  I  can  get  nothing  to  eat  or  drink  until  Mis- 
Flint  is  served,  and  I'm  determined  to  ask  papa  to  change 
our  seats  at  the  table.  It  isn't,  that  I  care  about  my  food: 
but  I  feel  insulted— mv  pride  is  essentially  wounded.  A 
few  davs  aLro  I  was  a  'jreat  favourite,  with  Peter,  and  all  my 
pet  dishes  were  sure  to  be  placed  in  front,  of  me;  hut  now 
the  tune  is  changed,  and  this  very  evening  i  saw  him  pa>.-: 
Ger'rnde  the  blackberries,  which  the  creature  know<  I 
it  in,  while  he  pushed  a.  djsl;  of  blues  towards  me  if 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  259 

a  contemptuous  manner,  which  seemed  to   imply,  *  Blue- 
berries are  good  enough  for  you,  miss  ! ' ' 

"  I  have  noticed  that  the  waiters  are  very  attentive  to 
us,"  said  Emily;  "do  you  suppose  Gertrude  has  been 
secretly  bribing  them  ?  " 

'•'She  says  not,"  replied  Netta  "Didn't  you  tell  me  so 
yesterday.;  Gertrude,  when  I  was  drawing  a  similar  com- 
parison between  their  devotion  to  you  and  to  our  party? 
Didn't  you  tell  me  that  neither  the  ducio;  no;  any  of  you 
ever  gave  Peter  anything?" 

"Certainly,"  answered  Gertrude;  "'  hi-  attentions  arc-  all 
voluntary;  but  I  attribute  them  entirely  to  Emily's  influ- 
ence and  his  dusiire  to  servo  her." 

"It  is  no  such  thing/'''  said  Xctt.i;  "it's  sorcery,  I'm 
sure  of  it;  you've  be(iri  practising  !he  black  art,  Gertrude, 
and  I'll  warn  Peter  this  very  Ua\.'" 

They  now  went  to  tin  coiner  of  the  drawing-room  where 
the  old  ladies  of  Gryseworth  and  Jeremy  were  sitting 
upon  a  sofa,  engaged  in  earnest  conversation,  while  Ellen, 
who  had  just  returned  from  a  drive  with  hei  father,  stood 
talking  with  him  and  a  31)'.  Petnnieourt,  who  had  ju-L 
arrived  from  Xew  York. 

The  ladies  on  the  sofa  made  room  for  Emily,,  and  Xetta 
and  Gertrude  seated  themselves.  Madame  Grysewortli  was 
annoyed  by  a  group  of  cliildien  on  the  other  side  of  tin- 
room,  who  by  their  shouts  interrupted  her  remarks,  and 
prevented  her  understanding  those  <>f  her  neighbour. 
Gertrude's  attention  was  attracted  bvthom  to  such  a  de- 
gree that  she  did  not  hear  half  of  the  sallies  of  wit  and  non- 
sense which  Xetta  continued  to  puur  forth,. 

'"Do  go  and  play  with  those  children.  Gertrude/' said 
Xetta  at  last;  "  i  know  you're  longing  to  £,,/•' 

"  I'm  longing  to  .-top  their  play!  "  said  (iert.rudr. 

Some    half-dozen     gaily-dressMJ    children    had 
around  a  strange  lit  lie   new-comer,   wiiuui   t 
jecting     to    (-very    spci-ies    of    [lersecutioi1, 
though  of    rich   materials,  wc^-e  mostly 
and  soiled  h\  travelling.      i(er  little  1)1;!. 


her,  as  jf  to  rseupij,  but   ih.sthe    chhdro'.i    ['ie'venttd    umi 


360  TUR  LAMPLIGHTER. 

continued  to  ply  her  with  qu>'stnms.  each  of  which  railed 
forth  their  derisive  shouts,  whieh  made  her  cry.  Whether 
the  scene  reminded  (Jertrnde  c,f  some  of  her  own  experi- 
ences, or  merely  touched  the  chord  of  sympathy  for  the 
injured,  she  eould  not.  keep  her  eyes  from  the  little  party; 
and  just  as  Xetta,  was  upon  one  of  her  favourite  topies — • 
namely,  Mr.  Philii])S  and  his  unaccountable  conduct— she 
sprang  from  her  sent,  exclaiming,  "  They  shan't  torment 
that  child  so!''  aii;l  l.ns'ilv  cro<S"d  the  room. 

Xetta  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh  at  Gertrude's  excited 
manner  of  starting  on  her  b.-nevolent  errand;  and  this, 
together  with  her  so  hastily  (  rossiug  the  large  and  crowded 
room,  drew  the  inqu.rie/;  of  ail  iho  circle  whom  she  had 
left,  and  during  her  absence  she  became  '.he  subject  of  dis- 
cussion and  remark. 

"What  is  the  mutter,  Xetta?"  asked  Madame  Grysc- 
worth.  "  Where  has  (reitrude  i^one;1'" 

"To  offer  herself  MS  a  <,-l);ui:|)io!i,  grandmamma,  for  that 
little  rowdy-dowdy  looking  child." 

"  Is  she  the  one  \\ho  ha.--  lieen  making  all  this  noise?" 

"  Xo,  indeeil;  b;:i  1   believe  sii'-  !F  th''  cause  of  it." 

"It  isn't  everv  girl,"  said  Kllen,  "  wiio  could  cross  a 
room  like  this  so  gra.vijiilv  as  f^>i-tr'.;de  can." 

"She  has  a  ivmarkah.y  2;oo  1  Rgnre,"  said  Madamo 
Gryseworth,  *'.iud  knows  hi>\v  ;•>  \valk." 

"She  is  ;i  very  we!l-f'-rmed  girl,"  reinnrki'd  Dr.  Grvse- 
worth,  "  but  «,!ie  true  secret  o;'  her  looking  so  completely 
the  lady  lies  in  her  having  uncommon  dignitv  of  charac- 
ter, being  whol'v  nnconsi  ous  of  observation  and  independ- 
ent of  the  wish  to  aHrael  ii.  She  rl ressi.'s  vvli,  too;  Kllen^ 
I  wish  yon  wi.Mild  imiia'e  Mis  ;•  ,:-'  :tyle  of  d  res?;  noth- 
ing could  be  iii  beP'T  ta-jN-. " 

•M.)r  a  greater  saving  to  vorjr  p'.u---e  papa.1'"  \v!ii,<percd 
Ni-tta.  " '( ujrtrud  >  dres  es  v'ery  <im 

"Miss  Flint's  style  of  dress  wo'.;id  riot  rteenme  ^li:-£ 
firysewoi'th,''  said  Mr;-.  i1et.]iancourt,  ^hn  sippr'iac.hcd  in 
tinn- to  h>-ar  the  doi-inr's  re:i,ail\.  "  Vonr  daughter,  sir, 
is  a  noble,  showy- 1 1  rl,  a  \\> ''  can  i-ar:  v  oil  •!  -j-r-at.  deal 

of  d  ress." 

"So  c,tn  •)  milli  !(•'•'-  ij.)'!,  Mrs  I',  !  nincutirf.  ilowever, 
1  sn  |'|'o.-e,  ]';••  M  eerl  •!  >,  -•  •  •••,  \  •  lit.  'J'h'-  i  wo  girls 

::)•••  :iot  -lilh'ci  'iitlv  ilik.1  to  r.  •  'ac.h  otln-r  if  their 

Ul-cSfie-    Wi-cc    riiil  f.filu  il    »v,...    '.'.ji.ii  ^i'   olXlH;t,IieaS." 


THE  t  A.MPLWIITER. 

"Resemble  each  other!  ~\ r>u  surely  would  not  wish  to 
see  your  beautiful  daughter  the  counterpart  of  one  who 
has  not  half  her  attraction*." 

"Are  you  much  acquainted  \vith  Miss  Flint''" 

"  Not  at  all;  but  >,'etta  pointed  her  out  to  me  at  the  tea- 
table  as  being  a  particular  friend." 

"Then  YOU  must  excuse  me,  ma'am, if  I  remark  that  it 
is  impossible  you  should  have  any  idea  of  her  attractions, 
as  they  do  not  lie  on  the  surface." 

"  You  confess,  then,  that  you  do  not  think  Ler  hand- 
some, sir?  •'' 

"  To  tell  you  tho  truth,  I  never  thought  anything  about  it. 
Ask  Petrancourt;  he  is  an  acknowledged  judge;;"  and  the 
doctor  bowed  in  a  flattering  manner  to  the  lady  who  had 
been  the  belle  of  the  season  at  the  time  her  husband  paid 
his  addresses  to  her. 

•'•  I  will,  when  I  can  get  a  c;:aiir.e;  but  he  is  standing  too 
near  the  blind  lady— Mi>s  Flint'"*  -.luiit,  is  she  not  ?" 

"Particular  iVinid ;   not  her  aim!." 

This  conversation  !;ad  iieen  carried  on  in  a  low  voice, 
that  Emi.lv  might.  n;>t  hear  it;.  Others,  however,  were 
either  more  ratvle.-s  or  more  indifferent  to  her  presence; 
for  Madam  Gnrsewort ii  began  to  speak  of  Gertrude  with- 
out restraint,  and  she  was  ai  this  moment  saving,  "On" 
must  see  i:er  under  pecu.iar  circumstances  to  be  struck 
with  her  beauty  at  oii'-e;  j',,r  in-ianc<?,  as  i  did  yesterday, 
when  she  had  just,  returned  i'rorn  riding,  and  her  face  was 
in  a  glow  from  exercise  and  excitement;  or  as  she  looks 
when  animated  by  her  intei: 
eloquent  speaker,  'ir  when  ;!>•!• 
and  the  tears  start  into  Irjr  o 
out  thro'igh  them'  ' 

''Why,  grandmamma,"  cries  Xetta,  "you  are  reallv 
aloquent ! " 

'  rfo  is  Gertrude,  at  Siich  rimes  us  those  I  s]>eak  of.  Oil. 
she  is  ,i  girl  after  iiiv  own  ii'-ai't  1  " 

'•  Sii^'  must  !ie  a  rery  ,-igreeable  y.'uriQf  ladv,  from  your 
accouiit,"  said  Mr.  I'etraiu-ourt.  ''  U"-'  ninst  know  lier." 

';  You  »vill  not  find  h«  r  of  ;',..•  <:;me  stamp  as  most  of  ih:v 
agreeable!  young  laui<<s  \\\;  :in  you  meet  in  gav  envies.  1 
must,  'H!  you  \vliat  Horace  U'i'llai-!  said  'if  her".  ile  is  an 
>.. 'com  pi  i  shed  Mian  an.!  a  scholar— -ins  opinion  is  worth 
iomething.  lie  had  been  staving  a  I  •;•'  night,  at  tin;  United 


262  1HK  l.AMri  lilUTKll 

States  Hotel,  and  used  in  e;i:i  occasionally  to  see  us.  The 
dav  In-  left  in.1  came  in  im-  ;uiii  said — •  \\  "here  is  Miss  Flint  ? 
1  must  have  one  more  ivi'res!  ing  conversation  with  her  be- 
fore I  go.  It  is  a  perfcet  n-st  ;o  be  in  that  young  lady's 
society,  for  she  never  seems  to  be  making  rhe  least  ell'ort  to 
talk  \viili  me,  or  to  expect  ai.y  a!  temp!  on  mv  part;  siie  i.-» 
one  of  a  few  twirls  who  never  speak  unless  tliev  have  some- 
thing to  say.'  How  .-he  has  contrived  to  (pnet  those  chil- 
dren !" 

Mr.  Petranconrt  followed  the  direction  of  Madame  Gryse- 
woiih'.sey.-s.  ••  1.-  that  the  young  ladv  von  were  speaking 
of  ?"  asked  lie.  "The  one  with  great  dark  eves,  and  such 
u  splendid  head  of  hair?  1  have  been  noticing  her  for 
some  time. " 

'•  Yes.  that  is  she.  talking  to  the  little  girl  in  black." 
"Madame   ( irysewoi  th,"   said     i*1'.   Jeremy,  through    the 
l<i::g,  open  window.  a?id  stepping  inside  a>  he  spoke.  "  I  see 
you  appreciate  our  Gert\  :    1  diti  not  sav  too  mui-h  in  pmise 
of  her  good   sens.e.  d  ,d    1  ?  " 

'•  Not  half  enough,  doctor;  sin-  is  a  very  bright  girl,  and 
a  verv  good  one,  I  believe. " 

"Good!"  exelaimed  the  doctor:  "I  didn't  know  that 
goodness  counted  in  these  places;  but  if  goodness  is  worth 
speaking  of,  i  should  like  to  tell  von  a  iiiileof  what  1  know 
of  that  girl;''  and,  without  going  cioselv  into  particulars, 
lie  eoniinenci-d  dilating  enthusiastically  upon  Gertrude's 
noble  and  disinter- sled  eondui-t  under  Irving  circum- 
stances, and  had  recount, 'd,  in  a  touching  manner,  her 
devot  ion  to  01  :  >  allot  her  infirm  and  ill- 

tempered  cli]  man  and  his  slow! v-deriining  daughter  — 
and  would  have  procerd'-d  io  speak  of  her  recent  self- 
sacrificing  ial'"'irs  in  Mini  I  v'.-  seryice;  bui  Miss  (iraliam 
touc'ned  his  ai'm,  sjioke  .11  a  l'>w  voice,  and  interrupted 
him. 

He  stopjM"]  al  •uptly.  '•  Kihily,  my  dear,"  .-aid  lie,  "  I 
b('^  your  pardon;  i  didn't  know  you  wre  here;  but  what 
you  sav  i-  very  true.  (Jertrud-1  is  a  private  character,  and 
J  have  no  r  -':.t  io  bring  In  i1  before  the  [iiiblic.  I  am  an 
old  fool,  certainly  :  but  there.  \ve  are  all  friends."  And  he 
looixeil  ai'oiind  the  circle  ;  little  aiixioiislv.  casting  a 
slightly  >u  _';i'-'e  a'  (he  I'etrancourts.  and  tinailv 

rested  his  _:'a/"  in  <'.  a  lijurc  lieiiind  Milen  ( !  rvsewort  h. 
The  latter  turned,  ie  :  ;  ,  ing  l;e.cii  previously  aware  that 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  iiG'J 

any  stranger  was  near,  ami.  to  her  surprise,  found  herself 
face  to  face  with  Mr.  Phillips!  "  Good  evening,  sir,"  said 
she,  on  recognising  him;  but.  he  did  not  seem  to  hear  her. 
Madam  Gryseworth.  who  had  never  seen  him  before, 
looked  up  inquiringly. 

"Mr.  Phillips,"  said  Kllen,  "shall  T  make  you  acquainted 
with    Mrs.   Gryseworth,   my —  But    before  she  could 

complete;  the  introduction  he  had  darted  through  the 
window,  and  was  walking  across  the  piazza  with  hasty 
strides. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

A    SURPRISE. 

LATER  in  the  evening,  when  Gertrude,  having  resigned 
her  little  charge  to  the  nurse  who  came  to  seek  her,  had 
again  joined  her  party,  the  attention  of  every  one  assem- 
bled in  the  drawing-room  was  attracted  by  the  entrance 
of  a  beautiful  and  showily-dressed  young  lady,  attended  by 
two  or  three  gentlemen.  After  glancing  round  the  room 
for  the  person  whom  she  came  to  seek,  she  advanced 
towards  Mrs.  Petrancourt,  who  rose-  to  receive  her  young 
visitor.  Unexpected  as  the  meeting  was  to  Gertrude,  she 
recognized  Isabel  Clinton,  who  passed  both  her  and  Kmilv 
without  observing  them,  and,  there  being  no  vacant  chair 
near  at  hand,  seated  herself  with  Mrs.  Petrancourt  on  a 
couch  a  little  farther  up  the  room,  and  entered  into  earne-t 
conversation;  nor  did  she  change;  her  position  or  look  in 
the  direction  of  Dr.  Jeremy's  party  until  she  was  taking 
leave.  She  would  have  passed  them  then  without  noticing 
their  presence,  but  hearing  I  >r.  G  rvsewort  h  address  Miss 
Flint  by  name,  she  half  turned,  caught  Gertrude's  eve, 
spoke  a  careless  "  How  do  you  do  ':  "  with  that  indifference 
with  which  one  salutes  a  verv  slight  acquaintance,  east  a 
look  back  at  Emily,  surveved  with  an  impertinent  air  of 
curiosity  the  rest  of  the  circle  to  which  thev  belonged,  and 
unceremoniously  walked  off,  whispering  to  her  companions 
some  satirical  comments  upon  the  place  and  the  companv. 

"Oh,  what  a  beauty !"  exclaimed  Xetta  to  Mrs.  Pe  trail- 
court.  *•'  AY  ho  is  she  ^ " 


'_v,-i  TUF.  /..i. V/Y./' ,7/7777?. 

Mrs.  Petraneourt  related  \vli;it  she  knew  of  Miss  Clinton, 
told  how  sin.1  had  travelled  \vith  her  in  Switzerland,  and 
met  her  in  Paris,  when-  she1  was  universally  admired;  then, 
turning  to  Gertrude,  she  remarked,  "You  are  acquainted 

with  her,  I  see,  .Miss  Flint."  Gertrude  replied  that  she 
knew  her  before  she  went  abroad,  but  had  seen  nothing  of 
her  since  her  return. 

'•She  has  just  arrived,3''  said  Mrs.  Petrancourt;  "she 
came  with  her  father  in  the  last  steamer,  and  has  been  in 
Saratoga  hut  a  day  or  two.  She  is  making  a  great  sensation 
at  the  '  United  States,'  and  has  troops  of  beaux." 

"  Most  of  whom  are  probably  aware,"  remarked  Mr. 
Petranconrt,  "  that  she  will  have  plenty  of  money  one  of 
these  days." 

Emily's  attention  was  by  this  time  attracted.  She  had 
been  conversing  with  Kllen  Gryscworth,  but  now  turned  to 
ask  Gertrude  if  they  were  speaking  of  Isabel  Clinton. 

"  Yes,"  said  Dr.  Jeremy,  "and  if  she  were  not  the  rudest 
girl  in  the  world,  my  dear,  you  would  nut  have  remained  so 
long  in  ignorance  of  her  having  been  here." 

Emily  forbore  to  make  any  comment.  Gertrude  was 
silent  also;  but  she  burned  in  ward  iy,  as  she  always  did,  at 
any  alights  being  offered  to  tin-  ^entie  Emilv. 

Gertrude  and  Dr.  Jeremy  were  always  among  the  earliest 
morning  visitors  at  the  spring.  The  doctor  enjoved  drink- 
ing the  water  at  this  hour;  and.  as  Gertrude  was  fond  of 
walking  hefurc  breakfast,  lie  made  it  a  point  that  she  should 
accompany  him.  partake  of  t lie  beverage  of  which  he  was 
so  fond,  and  afterwards  ju  n  h:m  in  bri.-k  pedestrian  exer- 
cise till  near  breakfast  t  nm-. 

On  the  morning  succeeding  the  evening  of  which  we  have 
been  speaking,  tiiev  had  presented  themselves  at  the  spring. 
Gertrude  had  LH'atiiied  the  doctor,  and  made  a  martyr  of 
herself  bv  unhiding  a  tumblerful  of  water  which  she  found 
verv  unpalatable;  and  he  having  otiaflVd  his  seventh  glass, 
thevhad  both  proceeded  some  di.-tanee  on  one  more  walk 
around  the  ground-  \\hen  lie  suddonlv  missed  his  cane, and 
believing  that  he  had  left  it  at  the  spring,  declared  his  in- 
tent ion  to  ret  urn  and  luok  [or  it. 

( iert  rude  w.'ii  Id  have  'j '•]'(•  <..,>  I  ;il  so,  but,  as  t  here  might 
ne  some  diiViciiltv  iii  fee,  vci'  ; ; _;  it.  lie  insisted  upon  her 
contintiinL'  h(ir  ualk  .n  I  iie  d  ,1  C'ii..n  of  t  he  circular  railway, 
promising  to  come  round  the  other  way  and  meet  her.  She 


THE  LAMPLTOnTER.  20"i 

had  proceeded  some  little  distance,  and  was  walking 
thoughtfully  along,  when,  at  an  abrupt  windingin  the  path, 
she  observed  a  couple  approaching  her- — a  young  lady  lean- 
ing on  the  arm  of  a  gentleman.  .  A  straw  hat  partly  con- 
cealed the  face  of  the  latter,  but  in  the  former  she  recog- 
nised Bella  Clinton.  It  was  evident  that  Bella  saw  Ger- 
trude, and  knew  her.  but  did  not  mean  to  acknowledge  her 
acquaintance;  for.  after  the  first  glance,  she  kept  her  eyes 
obstinately  fixed  either  upon  her  companion  or  the  ground. 
This  conduct  did  not  disturb  Gertrude  in  the  least;  Bella 
could  not  feel  more  indifferent  about  the  acquaintance  than 
she  did;  but  being  thus  saved  the  necessity  of  awaiting  and 
returning  anv  salutation  from  that  quarter,  she  naturally 
bestows  her  passing  glance  upon  the  gentleman  who  accom- 
panied Miss  Clinton.  lie  looked  up  at  the  same  instant, 
fixed  his  full  grey  eyes  upon  her,  with  that  careless  look 
with  which  one  stranger  regards  another,  then,  turning  as 
carelessly  awav.  made  some  slight  remark  to  IMS  companion. 

They  pass  on.  They  have  gone  some  steps — but  Gertrude 
stands  fixed  to  the  spot.  She  feels  a  great  throbbing  at 
her  heart.  She  knows  that  look,  that  voice,  as  well  as  if 
she  had  seen  and  heard  them  yesterday.  Could  Gertrude 
forget  Willie  Sullivan  ?  But  he  has  forgotten  her.  Shall 
she  run  after  him  and  stop  him,  and  catch  both  his  hands 
in  hers,  and  compel  him  to  see,  and  know,  and  speak  to 
her  ?  She  started  one  step  forward  in  the  direction  he  had 
taken,  then  suddenly  paused  and  hesitated.  A  crowd  of 
emotions  choked,  blinded,  suffocated  her.  and  while  she 
wrestled  with  them,  and  they  with  her.  he  turned  the  corner 
and  passed  out  of  sight.  She  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands  and  leaned  against  a  tree. 

It  was  Willie.  There  was  no  doubt  of  that;  but  not  her 
Willie — the  hay  Willie.  It  was  true  time  had  added  but 
little  to  his  height  or  breadth  of  figure,  for  he  was  a  weil- 
grown  youth  when  he  went  away.  But  six  years  of  Eastern 
life,  including  no  small  amount  of  travel,  care,  exposure, 
and  suffering,  had  done  t  lie  work  t  hat  time  would  ordinarily 
have  accomplished.  The  winning  attractiveness  of  the  boy 
had  but  given  place  to  equal,  if  not  superior,  qualities  in 
the  man.  who  was  still  very  handsome,  and  gifted  with  that 
natural  grace  and  ease  of  deportment  \\hieh  win  universal 
commendation.  The  broad,  open  forehead,  the  lines  of 
mild  but  firm  decision  about  the  mouth,  the  frank,  fearless 


206  77777  LA 

manno:,  were  as  marked  as  ever,  and  were  alono  sufficient 
to  betray  his  iilontitv  to  otic  upon  whose  memory  these  and 
all  his  other  characteristics  were  indelibly  stamped:  and 
Gertrude  needed  not  the  sound  of  his  well-known  voice, 
that  too  fell  upon  her  ear,  to  proclaim  to  her  beating  heart 
that  Willie  Sullivan  had  met  her  face  to  face,  had  passed 
on,  and  that  she  was  left  alone,  unrecogni.-ed,  unknown, 
unthought  of,  and  unoared  for  ! 

For  a  time  this  bitter  thought,  "lie  does  not  know  me,'3 
was  present  to  her  mind;  it  engrossed  her  entire  irmigina* 
tion,  and  sent  a  thrill  of  surprise  and  agony  through  her 
whole  frame.  She  did  not  stop  to  reflect  upon  the  fact  that 
she  was  but  a  child  when  she  parted  from  him,  and  that  the 
change  in  her  appearance  must  be  immense.  The  one  pain- 
ful idea,  that  she  was  forgotten  and  lost  to  the  dear  friend 
of  her  childhood,  obliterated  every  other  recollection. 
Other  feelings,  too,  soon  crowded  into  her  mind.  Why 
was  Willie  here,  and  with  Isabel  Clinton  leaning  on  his 
arm?  How  came  he  on  this  side  the  ocean  ?  and  why  had 
he  not  immediately  sought  herself,  the  earliest  and,  as  she 
had  supposed,  almost  the  only  friend,  to  welcome  him  back 
to  his  native  land?  Why  had  he  not  written  and  warned 
her  of  his  coming?  How  should  she  account  for  his 
strange  silence,  and  the  still  stranger  circumstance  of  his 
hurrying  at  once  to  the  haunts  of  fashion,  without  once 
visiting  the  city  of  his  birth  and  the  sister  of  his  adoption  ? 

Hut  among  all  her  visions  there  had  bc',n  none  which 
approached  the  reality  of  this  painful  experience  that  had 
suddenly  plunged  her  into  sorrow.  Her  darkest  dreams  had 
never  pictured  a  meeting  so  chilling;  her  must,  fearful  fore- 
bodings hud  never  prefigured  anything  so  heart-rending  as 
this  seemingly  annihilation  of  all  the  sweet  and  cherished 
relations  that  had  subsisted  between  herself  and  the  long- 
absent  wanderer.  Xo  wonder,  then,  that  she  forgot  the 
place,  the  time,  everything  but  her  own  overwhelming 
grief;  and  that,  as  she  stood  leaning  against  the  old  tree, 
her  chest  heaved  with  sobs  too  deep  for  utterance,  and  great 
tears  trickled  from  her  eyes  ..nd  between  the  little  taper 
fingers  that  vainly  sought  to  hide  her  disturbed  countenance. 

She  was  startled  from  her  position  bv  the  sound  of  a 
footstep,  ilastilv  starting  forward,  without  looking  in  the 
direction  from  which  it  came,  and  throwing  her  veil  so  as 
to  hide  her  face,  she  wiped  away  her  I'ast-ilowing  tears  and 


TJTFJ  LAVPLTQTITER.  2C7 

hastened  on,  to  avoid  being  observed  by  any  of  the  numer« 
ous  strangers  who  frequented  the  grounds  at  this  hour. 

Half-blinded,  however,  by  the  thick  folds  of  the  veil, 
and  her  sight  rendered  dim  by  the  tears  which  filled  her 
eyes,  she  was  scarcely  conscious  of  the  unsteady  course  she 
was  pursuing,  when  suddenly  a  loud,  whizzing  noise  close 
to  her  ears  frightened  and  confused  her  so  that  she  knew 
not  which  way  to  turn;  at  the  same  instant  an  firm  was 
suddenly  Hung  round  her  waist,  she  was  forcibly  lifted  from 
her  feet  as  if  she  had  been  a  little  child,  and  found  herself 
detained  and  supported  by  the  same  strong  arm,  while  just 
in  front  of  her  a  little  hand -car,  containing  two  persons, 
was  whirling  by  at  full  speed.  One  step  more  and  she 
would  have  reached  tin'  track  of  the  miniature  railway, and 
been  exposed  to  fatal  injury  from  the  rapidly-moving 
vehicle.  Flinging  back  her  veil,  she  perceived  her  fortu- 
nate escape;  and  being  released  from  the  firm  grasp  of  her 
rescuer,  she  turned  upon  him  a  half-confused,  half-grateful 
face. 

Mr.  Phillips — for  it  was  he — looked  upon  her  in  the 
most  tender  and  pitying  manner.  "  Poor  child!  "  said  he 
soothingly,  at  the  same  time  drawing  her  arm  through  his, 
"you  were  very  much  frightened.  Here,  sit  down  upon  this 
bench, "and  he  would  have  drawn  her  towards  a  seat,  but 
she  shook  her  bend  and  signified  by  a  movement  her  wish 
to  proceed  towards  the  hotel.  She  could  not  speak;  the 
kindness  of  his  look  and  voice  onlv  served  to  increase  her 
trouble  and  rob  her  of  the  power  to  aiticulate.  So  he 
walked  on  in  silence,  supporting  her  with  the  greatest  care 
and  bestowing  upon  her  many  an  anxious  glance.  At  last 
making  a  great  elTort  to  recover  her  calmness,  she  partially 
succeeded — so  much  so  thai  he  ventured  to  speak  again, 
and  asked,  •'  Did  /  frighten  you  ?" 

"You!"  replied  she,  in  a  low  and  somewhat  unsteady 
voice.  "Oh  no!  you  are  verv  kind." 

"I  am  sorry  yon  an;  so  disturbed,"  said  he;  "  those  littlo 
cars  are  troublesome  things  ;  1  wish  they'd  put  a  stop  to 
them." 

"The  car!"  said  Gertrude,  in  an  absent  way;  "oh,  yes, 
I  forgot." 

"You  are  a  little  nervous.  I  fear;  can't  you  get  Dr. 
Jeremy  to  prescribe  for  you  ?" 

"The  doctor!     lie  went  back  for  hi*  ".ane,  I  believe-" 


26S  T1IK  LAMPLIGHTER 

M>.  Phillips  saw  that  she  was  bewildered.  Tie  forbore 
any  conversation,  and  they  continued  their  \valk  to  the, 
hotel  in  silence.  Just  before  leaving  her  he  said,  in  a  torn; 
of  the  deepest  interest,  as  he  held  her  hand  for  a  moment 
at  parting,  "'Can  I  do  anything  for  you?  Can  I  help 
you  ?  " 

Gertrude  looked  up  at  him.  She  saw  that  he  understood 
that  she  was  unhappy,  not  nervous.  He  \  -s  thanked  him 
as  thev  glistened  behind  a  shower  of  tears.  "No,  no," 
gasped  she,  •'•'  but  you  are  very  good;  "  and  she  hastened  into 
the  house,  leaving  him  gazing  at  the  door,  as  if  she  was  still 
in  sight  and  ne  were  wa telling  her. 

Gertrude's  fir  si,  thought  was  how  she  might  best  conceal 
all  her  fears,  and  especially  from  Miss  Graham  any  know- 
ledge of  her  grief.  That  she  would  receive  sympathy  from 
Kmily  there  could  be  no  doubt;  but  as  she  loved  her 
benefactress,  did  she  shrink  from  any  disclosure  which  was 
calculated  to  lessen  Willie  Sullivan  in  the  estimation  of  one 
in  "whose  opinion  she  was  anxious  that  he  should  sustain 
the  high  place  to  which  her  own  praises  had  exalted  him. 
The  chief  knowledge  that  J'lmily  had  of  Willie,  was  derived, 
from  Gertrude,  and  with  a  mingled  feeling  of  tenderness 
for  him  ami  pride  on  her  own  account  did  the  latter  dread 
to  disclose  the  fact  that  he  had  returned,  and  that  she  had 
met  him  at  Saratoga,  and  that  he  had  passed  her  carelessly 
by. 

It  was  very  hard  for  her  to  appear  as  usual  and  elude  tbo 
vigilance  of  Emily,  who  was  keenly  alive  to  every  sensation 
experienced  by  Gertrude. 

Gertrude's  love  for  Willie  was  undying,  and  she  could 
not  think  that  he  would  attach  himself  to  one  so  worldlv, 
vain,  'and  selfish  as  Isabel  (.Million.  True,  she  was  the 
daughter  of  Willie's  early  and  generous  employer,  now  tho 
senior  partner  in  the  mercantile  house  to  \vh  ;eh  he  belonged, 
and  would  be  expected  to  pav  her  everv  polite  at  tent  it  n ; 
but  .-till  Gertrude  eo:iM  i,nt  but  feel  a  greater  sense  of 
es!  rang''ment,  a  chilling  presentiment  of  sorrow,  from 
familiarly  associated  with  one  v;ho  had 

, and  endeavour 
G ert  rude  eom- 
1  v  was  await  ing 
and    assist  in 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  2  «•">!? 

her  toilet.  Tier  face  bore  indications  of  recent  tears,  but 
that  Emily  could  not  see,  and  by  breakfast-time  even  they 
were  effectually  removed. 

New  trials  too  awaited  her,  for  Dr.  Jeremy,  according  to 
his  promise,  after  recovering  his  cane,  went  to  meet  her  as 
agreed  upon,  and,  finding  her  false  to  her  appointment,  was 
full  of  inquiries  as  to  the  path  she  had  taken.  The  truth 
was,  that  when  Gertrude  heard  Mr.  Phillips  approaching 
in  the  direction  she  should  have  taken,  she,  in  her  eager- 
ness to  avoid  meeting  any  one,  took  the  contrary  path  to 
that  she  had  been  pursuing,  and,  after  he  joined  her, 
retraced  her  steps  to  the  hotel  the  same  way  she  had  come, 
consequently  eluding  the  search  ot  l;ho  doctor.  3?ut  before 
she  could  plead  any  excuse  Netta  Gryseworth  came  up,  full 
of  pleasantry  arid  fun,  and  leaning  over  Gertrude's  shoulder, 
said,  in  a  whisper  loud  enough  to  be  heard  by  all  the  little 
circle,  who  were  being  delayed  on  their  way  to  breakfast 
by  the  lector's  demand  for  an  explanation,  "  Gertrude,  my 
dear,  such  affecting  partings  ought  to  be  private;  I  wonder 
\ou  allow  them  to  take  place  directly  at  the  door-step." 

This  remark  did  not  lessen  Gertrude's  discomfiture, 
which  became  extreme  on  Dr.  Jeremy's  taking  Xetta.  by 
the  arm  and  insisting  upon  knowing  her  meaning,  declar- 
ing that  he  always  had  suspicions  of  Gertrude,  and  wanted 
to  know  with  whom  she  had  been  walking. 

"Oh,  a  certain  t;ill  young  beau  of  hers,  who  stood  gazing 
after  her  when  she  left  him,  until  I  began  to  fear  the  cruel 
creature  had  turned  him  into  stone.  What  did  you  do  to 
him,  Gertrude?" 

"Nothing,"  replied  Gertrude.  "He  saved  me  from 
being  thrown  down  by  the  little  rail-car,  and  afterwards 
walked  home  with  me."  Gertrude  answered  seriously  ;  she 
could  have  laughed  and  joked  with  Xetta,  at  any  other 
time,  bxit  now  her  heart  was  too  heavy.  The  doc-tor  did 
not  perceive  her  agitation,  and  pushed  the  matter  further. 

u  Quite:  romantic  !  imminent  danger!  providential  rescue! 
ti'ti'-a-tvle  walk  home,  carefully  avoiding  the  old  doctor, 
who  might  prove  an  interruption  !—  I  understand  !"  Poor 
Gertrude,  blushing  and  disi  rested,  tried  to  olTer  some 
explanation  and  stammered  out.  with  a  faltering  voice,  that 
she  did  not  not  ice,— she  didn't  remember. 

At  breakfast  she  could  not.  emu-cu!  her  want  of  appetite, 
'ui'J  WHS  <$la»l  \\-\\M\  Emily  w*mt  with  lun1  to  their  own  room, 


270  THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 

where,  after  relating  her  escape  from  accident,  and  Mr. 
Phillips'  agency  in  that  escape,  she  was  permitted  by  her 
apparently  satisfied  hearer  to  sit  down  and  read  to  her  in  ;i 
book  lent  them  by  that  gentleman,  to  whom,  however,  no 
opportunity  had  yet  occurred  of  introducing  Kmily. 

The  whole  morning  passed  away,  and  nothing  was  heard 
from  Willie.  Every  time  a  servant  passed,  (iertrnde  was 
on  the  tiptoe  of  expectation  ;  and  when  she  heard  a  tap  at 
the  door  she  trembled  so  that  she  could  hardly  lift  tin 
latch.  But  there  was  no  summons  to  the  parlour,  and  b\ 
noon  the  excitement  had  brought  a  deep  ilush  into  he:. 
face,  and  she  had  a  severe  headache.  Conscious,  howevci . 
of  the  wrong  construction  put  upon  her  conduct  if  she 
absented  herself  from  the  dinner-table,  she  made  the  effort 
to  dress  with  as  much  care  as  usual;  and,  as  she  passed  up 
the  hall  to  her  seat,  it  was  not  strange  that,  though  suffer- 
ing herself,  the  rich  glow  that  mantled  her  cheeks,  and  the 
brilliancy  which  excitement  had  given  to  her  dark  eyes, 
attracted  the  notice  of  others  besides  Mr.  Phillips. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

THE    STUICKKX    I  (HER. 

WHEN"  Gertrude  went  to  her  room  after  dinner,  which 
she  did  as  soon  as  she  had  seen  Emily  comfortably  estab- 
lished in  the  drawing-room  in  conversation  with  Madam 
Gryscworth,  she  found  there  a  beautiful  bouquet  of  the 
choicest  i!o\vers.  whieh  ihe  charnber-maid  -aid  she  had 
been  commissioned  to  deliver  to  herself.  ^|!t>  right.! y 
imagined  the  source  from  whence  thev  came,  divined  the 
motives  of  kindness  which  had  prompted  the  donor  of  so 
acceptable  a  gift,  and  felt,  that,  if  she  must,  accept  pit," 
from  any  quarter.  Mr.  Phillips  was  one  from  uhorn  sh* 
could  more  easily  boar  \«  receive  it  than  from  any  other. 

Notwithstanding  Xelta's  i  nt  imaJ  inns,  she  a;  id  not  sus- 
pect thai  anyi'tlicr  motives  than  those  of  kindne;-s  h,i.d 
prompted  the  offering  "1  the  beautiful  flnwci?.  Nor  h.id 
she  reason  to  do  .so  ;  Mr.  Phillips,'  manner  toward.-,  her  wu,a 


TIIK  LAMPLIGHTER.  271 

rather  fatherly  than  lover-like,  and  though  she  began  to 
regard  him  as  a  valuable  friend,  that  was  the  only  light  in 
which  she  had  ev^r  thought  of  him  or  believed  that  he  ever 
regarded  her.  She  placed  the  flowers  in  water,  returned 
to  the  parlour,  and  constrained  herself  to  talk  on  indifferent 
subjects  until  the  breaking  up  of  the  circle — part  to  ride, 
part  to  take  a  drive,  and  the  rest  a  nap.  Among  these  last 
was  Gertrude,  who  made  her  headache  as  an  excuse  to 
Emily  for  this  unwonted  indulgence. 

In  the  evening  she  had  an  urgent  invitation  to  accom- 
pany Dr.  Gryseworth,  his  (laughters,  and  the  Petrancourts 
to  a  concert  at  the  United  States  Hotel.  This  she  de- 
clined. She  felt  that  she  could  not  undergo  another  such 
encounter  as  that  of  the  morning — she  should  be  sure  to 
betray  herself;  and  now  that  the  whole  day  had  passed  and 
Willie  had  made  no  attempt  to  see  her,  she  felt  that  she 
wou^.l  not,  for  the  world,  put  herself  in  his  way  and  run 
the  risk  of  being  recognised  by  him  in  a  crowded  concert- 
room. 

Thus  the  parlour,  being  half  deserted,  was  very  quiet — a 
great  rolief  to  Gertrude's  aching  head  and  troubled  mind. 
Later  in  the  evening  an  elderly  man,  a  clergyman,  had 
been  introduced  to  Erniiy,  and  was  talking  with  her  ; 
Madam  Gryseworth  and  Dr.  Jeremy  were  entertaining  each 
other,  Mrs.  Jeremy  was  nodding,  and  Gertrude,  believing 
that  she  should  not  be  missed,  was  gliding  out  of  the  room 
to  sit  in  the  moonlight  when  she  met  Mr.  Phillips  in  the 
hall. 

"What  are  you  here  all  alone  for  ?"  asked  he.  "Why 
didn't  you  go  to  the  concert?" 

"  I  have  a  headache." 

"I  saw  you  had  at  dinner.     Is  it  no  better?" 

"So.     f  believe  not," 

"Corne  and  walk  with  me  on  the  piazza  a  little  while, 
It  will  do  you  good." 

She  went;  and  he  talked  very  entertainingly  to  her,  told 
her  a  great  many  amusing  anecdotes,  succeeded  in  making 
her  smile,  and  even  laugh,  and  seemed  pleased  at  having 
done  so.  He  related  many  amusing  things  he  had  seen 
and  heard  since  he  had  been  staving  at  Saratoga  in  the 
character  of  a  spectator,  and  ended  by  asking  her  if  she 
didn't,  think  it  was  a  hearties.-  show. 

Gertrude  asked  hi.-:  meaning. 


272  THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 

''  Don't  you  think  it.  is  ridiculous  in  so  many  thousand 
people  coming  hero  to  enjoy  themselves?" 

"1  don't  know,"  answered  (iertrudo;  "but  it  has  not 
seemed  so  to  me.  I  think  it's  an  excellent  thing  for  those 
\vlio  do  enjoy  themselves." 

•'And  how  many  do?  '' 

"The  greater  part,  1  suppose." 

"  Pshaw!  no  they  don't.  More  that  half  go  away  miser* 
able,  and  nearly  all  the  rest  dissatisfied." 

"Do  you  think  so?  Is'ow,  I  thought  the  charm  of  the 
place  was  seeing  so  many  happy  faces  ;  they  have  nearly  all 
looked  happy  to  me." 

"Oh,  that's  all  on  the  surface;  and,  if  you'll  notice, 
those  who  look  happy  one  day  are  wretched  enough  the 
next.  Yours  was  one  of  the  happy  faces  yesterday,  but  it 
isn't  to-day,  my  poor  child." 

Then,  perceiving  that  his  remark  caused  the  hand  which 
rested  on  his  arm  to  tremble,  while  the  eyes  which  had 
been  raised  to  his  suddenly  fell  and  hid  themselves  under 
their  long  lashes,  he  said.  "  However,  we  will  trust  soon  to 
see  it  as  bright  as  ever.  Hut  they  should  not  have  brought 
you  here.  Catskill  Mountain  was  a  fitter  place  for  your 
lively  imagination  and  reflecting  mind.'' 

''()h!"  exclaimed  (Jortrude,  imagining  that  Mr.  Phillips 
suspected  her  to  be  smarting  under  some  neglect,  feeling  of 
wounded  pride,  or,  perhaps,  serious  injury,  "you  speak 
harshly  ;  all  are  not  S'-liish.  all  are  not  unkind.'' 

"Ah!  you  arc  young,  and  full  of  faith.  Trust  whom  you 
can,  and  as  long  as  you  can.  /  trust  no  <nn." 

%>  Xo  one!  Are  there  none,  then,  in  the  whole  world 
whom  you  love  and  confide  in  ?" 

••  Scarcely  ;  certainly  not  more  than  one.  Whom  should 
I  trust '?" 

'•The  good,  the  pure,  the  trim*  great." 

"And  who  are  they?  How  shall  we  distinguish  them? 
I  tell  you,  my  young  friend,  that  in  my  experience — and  it 
has  been  rich,  av.  very  rich  " — ami  he  pet  his  teeth  and 
spoke  with  bitterness—"  t he  so-ealled  good,  the  honourable, 
the  upright  man,  h;is  proved  Kin  the  varnished  hypocrite, 
tip-  iii-hlv  fini-hed  and  po'i-hed  sinner.  Yes,'' continued 
lie,  hi-  voice  growing  deeper,  his  manner  more  excited,  "  I 
can  think  of  one,  a  respectable  man.  a  church-member, 
whose,  injustice  and  cn.;<:ity  made  my  life  what  it  has  beeu 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER,  273 

— a  desert,  a  blank,  or  worse  than  flint;  mid  T  can  think 
of  another,  an  old,  rough,  intemperate  sailor,  over  whoso 
head  a  dav  never  passed  that  lie  did  not  take  the  mime  of 
his  God  in  vain,  yet  had  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart  a  drop 
of  such  pure,  unsullied  essence  of  virtue  as  could  not  be 
distilled  from  the  souls  of  ten  thousand  of  your  polished 
rogues.  Wliieh,  then,  shall  I  trust — the  good  religious 
men,  or  the  low,  profane,  and  abject  ones  ?'v 

"'Trust  in  fioodac?*,  whe:ever  it  he  found/*  answered 
Gertrude  ;  '"'but  oh,  trust  "//  rather  than  none." 

"Your  \vorld.  your  religion,  draws  a  closer  line.  You 
are  a  good  child,  and  fuli  of  hope  and  charity,"  said  Mr. 
Phillips,  pressing  her  arm  closely  to  his  side.  "'  I  will  try 
and  have  faith  in  ''/ID/.  But.  see  !  our  friends  have  re- 
turned from  the  concert," 

Alboni  had  excelled  herself  ;  and  they  were  so  sorry 
Gertrude  did  not  go.  <k  lint,  perhaps,"  whispered  Ketta, 
'•you  have  enjoyed  yourself  more  at  home."  But  Gertrude, 
ns  she  stood  leaning  unconcernedly  upon  Mr.  Phillips' arm, 
looked  so  innocent  of  con;'usi'>n  or  embarrassment,  that 
her  manner  refuted  Xetta's  suspicions. 

"  Miss  Clinton  wa.^  there/' continued  Xetta,  "and  looked 
beautiful.  She  had  a  crowd  of  gentlemen  about  her;  but 
didn't  you  notice  (and  she  tinned  to  Mrs.  Petrancourt) 
that  one  met  with  such  marked  favour  that  I  wonder  the 
rest  were  not  discouraged.  1  mean  that  tali,  handsome 
young  man  who  wailed  upon  her  into  the  hall  and  went 
out  soon  after.  She  devoted  herself  to  him  while  he 
stayed." 

"The  same  one,  was  it  not."  asked  Ellen,  "who  towards 
the  close  of  the  concert  came  in  and  stood  leaning  against 
the  wall  for  some  minutes;'''' 

"Yes,"  answered  Xettn  ;  "but.  he  only  waited  for  Alboni 
to  finish  singing,  and  then  approaching  Miss  Clinton, 
whispered  in  her  ear.  After  that  she  got  up.  left  her  seat 
and  they  both  went  off,  rather  to  the  mortification  of  the 
other  gentlemen.'' 

"Oli,  it  is  not  strange,  under  tli<-  circumstances,"  said 
Mr.  Petranrourt,  "  that'  M..-S  Clinton  should  prefer  a  walk 
with  Mr.  Sullisan  t<>  the  bc.-t  music  in  the  world/" 

"  Why  ?"  askrd  Ncita.  "Is  he  wry  agreeable  ?  Is  he 
supposed  to  be  the  fa \omvd  one?" 

"I  should  think  there  WHS  no  doubt  of  it,"  answered  Mr. 


274  277A'  LAMPLIGHTER. 

Petrancourt.  "I  believe  it  is  generally  thought  to  bo  an 
engagement,  lie  was  in  Paris  with  them  during  the 
spring,  and  thov  all  came,  home  in  the  same  steamer. 
Kvervbodv  knows  it  is  the  wi.-h  of  Mr.  Clinton's  lieart,  and 
Miss  Isabel  makes  no  secret  of  her  preference." 

'•  Oli,  certainly,"  interposed  Mrs.  I'entracourt;  "it  is  an 
understood  thing.'' 

What  became  of  Gertrude  all  this  time?  Could  sli£, 
who  for  six  years  had  nur.-ed  the  fond  idea  that  to  Willie 
she  was,  and  should  still  continue  to  be,  all  in  all — could 
she  stand  patiently  bv  and  hear  him  thus  disposed  of  and 
given  to  another:'  She  did  do  it;  not  consciously,  how- 
ever, for  her  head  swam  round,  and  she  would  have  fallen 
but  for  the  firm  support  of  Mi1.  Phillips,  who  held  her  arm 
so  tightly  that,  though  he  felt,  the  rest  could  not  see  how 
she  trembled.  Fortunately,  too,  none  hut  he  saw  her 
blanched  face:  and,  as  she,  stood  in  the  shadow,  he  alone 
was  watching  the  strained  and  eager  eyes,  the  parted  and 
rigid  lips,  the  death-like  pallor  of  her  countenance. 

Standing  there  with  her  heart  beating,  and  almost  be- 
lieving herself  in  a  horrid  dream,  she  listened,  heard,  and 
comprehended  every  word.  She  could  not,  however,  have 
spoken  or  moved  for  her  life,  and  in  an  instant  more  acci- 
dent might  have  betrayed  her  excited  condition.  But  Mr. 
Phillips  acted,  spoke,  and  moved  for  her,  and  she  was 
spared  an  exposure  from  which  her  sensitive  spirit  would 
have  shrunk. 

"  Mr.  Sullivan  !'' said  he.  "Ah!  a  fine  fellow;  I  know 
him.  Miss  Gertrude.  I  must  tell  you  an  anecdote  about 
that  voung  man;''  and  moving  forward  in  the  direction  in 
which  they  had  been  walking  when  they  met  the  party 
from  the  concert,  he  related  that  he  and  Mr.  Sullivan  were, 
ri  few  years  previous,  travelling  across  an  Arabian  desert, 
whe:i  tilt;  latter  proved  of  signal  service  in  saving  him  from 
a  sudden  attack  bv  a  wandering  tribe  of  Bedouins.  He 
stopped  in  his  narration  and  perceived  that  all  danger  of 
observation  wa.-:  pa-sed,  and  without  ceremonv  placed  her 
iii  an  arm-chair  just  bv.  "Sit  here,"  said  he,  "  while  I 
hriiiLr  vou  a  ^'la.~.s  of  water."  lie  wrapped  her  mantle 
liu'htlv  ahont  her  and  ualked  tjilicklv  awav.  Oh,  how 
(iertrude  thanked  him  in  her  heart  for  thud  considerately 
leaving  IHT  jind  giving  her  lime  to  recover  herself  !  It  was 
the  ino.-i  judicious  thing  hu  could  have  done,  and  th".  kind- 


THE  LAUPLWTTTEK.  275 

cst.     lie  sav?  that  >he  would  nut  faint,  and   knew  that  left 
alone  she  \vuti Id  soon  rallv  her  powers. 

When  here  turned  sin  was  peri'octiv  calm.  Slie  tasted 
the  water,  but  lie  did  not  urge  her  to  drink  it;  he  knew 
fclie  did  not  require  it.  "  I  have  kept  you  out  too  long," 
said  he;  "  come,  yon  had  better  <;,»  in  now." 

She  rose;  lie  put.  her  arm  once  more  through  his,  guided 
her  feeble  steps  to  a  window  which  opened  into  her  and 
Emily's  room;  and  then,  pan-ing  a  moment,  said  in  a 
meaning  tone,  at  the  same  time  enforcing  his  words  by  the 
fixed  glance  of  his  piercing  eye,  "You  exhort  me,  Miss 
Gertrude,  to  have  fuith  in  e\  erybody ;  but  I  bid  you,  all 
inexperienced  as  you  are,  to  beware  lest  you  believe  too 
much.  "Where  you  have  good  foundation  for  confidence, 
abide  by  it,  if  you  can,  firmly,  but  tru-t  nothing  which  you 
have  not  fairly  te.-t.od,  and  rest  assured  that  the  idle  gossip 
of  a  place  like  this  is  utterlv  unworthy  of  credit.  Good 
night."  What  an  utter  revulsion  of  feeling  these  words 
occasioned  Gertrude;!  They  came  to  her  with  all  the  force 
of  a  prophecy,  and  struck  deep  into  her  heart. 

During  their  long  and  regular  correspondence  no  letter 
had  come  from  Willie  that  old  not  breathe  a  devoted  af- 
fection for  Gertrude- — an  exclusive  affection,  in  which  there 
could  be  TIO  rival-hip.  All  his  thoughts  of  home  and 
future  happy  days  were  inseparably  a^.-oeiated  with  her; 
and  although  Mrs.  Suihvan.  with  that  instinctive  reserve 
which  was  one  of  he;  eh:trae!cri-:i  ;cs,  never  broached  the 
subject  to  Gertrude,  her  whole  treatment  of  the  latter 
sufficiently  evinced  that  to  her  mind  thee\ent  of  her  future 
union  with  her  son  was  a  thing  certain,  Tlio  bold  dechi- 
ration  on  Willie's  part,  eoiiveved  in  the  letter  received  by 
Gertrude  soon  after  his  mother's  death,  that  his  hopes,  his 
prayers,  his  labours  were  now  all  for  her,  was  not  a  more 
convincing  proof  of  the  t<  nder  light  in  which,  lie  regarded 
her  than  all  their  previous  intercourse  had  been,  .should 
Gertrude,  then,  distrust  him?  Should  she  at  ono<> 
set  aside  all  past  e\idenees  of  his  worth,  and  give  ready 
credence  to  his  p'-ompt  desertion  of  his  early  friend  '•:  N 
shere  solved  to  banish  I  tie  tin  wort  hy  t  bo 
the  firm  belief  that  some  explanation 
itself  \\hich  would  y<  i  satisfy  her  aching  heart-. 

Gertrude  continued  during  lii"  remainder  of  the  even- 
ing in  au  elevated  frame  OL  mind,  and  she  was  ubje  to  go 


276  Tin:  LAMP 

jack  to  the  draw:i;_r-r  OMI  for  Kmily,  sav  good  night  to  hoi' 
friends  with  a  ch 'eri'n!  voice,  and  before  midnight  she 
sought  her  pillow  and  \\vnt  '|tiiotly  to  .-loop.  l>ut  this 
calmness  of  mind,  however.  WM  '•  tlio  result  of  strung  excite- 
ment, and  therefore  could  nol  i.-.<t.  The  next  morning  .she 
yielded  to  depressed  -pirits,  and  the  effort  which  she  made 
to  rise,  dress,  and  -:o  to  breakfast  was  almost  mechanical, 
She  excused  hcrsoif  [nun  her  customary  \valk  with  tin;  doc-- 
tor, for  to  that  she  iVlf  line  ji'.il.  Il'-r  first  wish  \vas  to 
leavt:  Saratoga;  slie  Ionised  r.o  go  home,  to  !»e  in  a  quiet 
place,  where  so  m.'.nv  eves  v, .  .1  d  r.ot  lie  upon  her;  and 
when  the  doctor  <;anie  'n  with  ih-'  1  'tiers  which  had  arrived 
bv  the  early  iii.nl.  she  look'  "Mi  s»>  eagerly  tliat  ho 

observed  it.  and  said,  smilingly,  "  None  for  you,  (!<M'tv; 
luit  one  for  Kini'v, '.vhich  s  the  in  \t  besl  thing,  !  suppose." 

To  (iertrude  this  was  the  •  •//  be.-l  t.iiiiu:.  for  it.  was  a 
Imifj-cxoectcd  lef.t'-r  I'min  M  :•.  (iraJitim,  \vlio  had  arrived  at 
]S'ew  York,  and  desired  them  !o  join  ii'm  there  the  follow- 
ing day.  (Jertrude  could  hardly  coni'i'al  her  satisfaction, 
and  Kmilv,  d^liLriited  at,  tiie  [irospcct  of  so  soon  meeting 
her  father,  was  e.iuf ••[•  to  pn.M>:tro  for  leaving. 

They  retireil  to  their  o\v;i  i-Mom.  and  ( .Vrt  rnde's  time 
until  dinner  was  occupied  m  pa 'king.  I):iring  the;  whole 
of  the  previous  day  she  had  been  ;m.\iou.-ly  hoping  that 
Willie  would  make  his  jippearanci;  at  their  hotel;  now  she 
dreaded  such  an  event.  To  mei  t  him  in  so  public  a  man- 
ner, too,  as  must  here  be  ine\  i'uble.  would  be  in>upport- 
uble;  she  would  prefer  to  b  •  in  1  Jo -ton  when  he  should  first 
recognize  h'-r;  and,  if  sh"  torni'-ntcd  herseif  yesterday  with 
the  fear  that  he  would  not  come,  the  dread  that  he  might 
do  so  was  a  still  Lireater  cause  of  d  stress  to  her  to-day. 

She  was  therefore  relieved  \vhe:i,  after  dinner,  Mr.  Phil- 
lips proposed  to  drive  t"  the  lake.  Dr.  (!ry si-worth  and 
one  of  his  daughters  had  agp't-d  to  take  seats  in  a  carriage 
lie  had  provided,  and  he  hoped  she  would  not  refuse  to 
occnpv  t  lie  four!  h 

At  the  lake  Dr.  (iryseworth  and  his  daughter  Kllen  had 
been  persuaded  by  a  part}  \vl;i  in  tlr  \  i;-id  met  there  to 
•  •ngaye  in  bowlinLT.  Mr.  P  and  (ler'.rude  deehned 

t.ik'iii'jf  part,  ;,nd  si  md  ;•  •.'-!::  on.  As  they  -  it  I  hi  is.  sur- 
ve\iiig  the  beautiful  s!  ect  ,,:  wal  'I1,  a  >•<  u;  e  approached 
and  took  up  a  ]  i  in,  .'•!  r.  Phillips  was 

screened   from    their   observation    bv  the  trunk   ol  a  tree. 


277 

and  Gertrude  suiTieientlv  so  to  be  unnoticed,  yet  the  pale. 
ness  of  her  face  as  tliev  drew  near  indicated  that  she  saw 
and  recognized  William  Sullivan  and  tatbel  Clinton.  The 
words  which  they  spoke  fell  distinctly  upon  her  ear,  "  Shall 
1  then  be  so  much  missed  '.' ''  asked  Isabel,  looking  earnestly 
into  the  face  of  her  companion,  who,  with  a  serious  air, 
was  gazing  out  upon  the  water. 

"  Missed  I "  replied  he,  turning  towards  her  and  speak- 
ing in  a  slightly  reproachful  voice;  "  how  can  it  be  other- 
wise ?  Who  can  supply  your  place  ?  " 

"  But  it  will  be  only  two  da\s.v 

"A  short  time  under  ordinary  circumstances,"  said 
Willie,  "but  an  eternity—  He  here  checked  himself 

and  madea  sudden  motion  to  proceed  on  their  walk.  Isabel 
followed  him,  saying,  "But  you  will  wait  here  until  my 
return?" 

He  turned  to  reply,  and  this  time  the  reproachful  look 
of  his  features  was  visible  to  Gertrude  as  he  said,  with 
earnestness,  "Certainly;  can  you  doubt  it  ?"  The  strange, 
fixed,  unnatural  expression  of  Gertrude's  countenance  as 
she  listened  to  this  conversation,  to  her  so  deeply  fraught 
with  meaning,  was  i'eaiful  to  witness. 

"Gertrude!"  exclaimed  .Mr.  Phillips,  after  watching  her 
for  a  moment;  "  Gertrude,  for  Heaven's  sake  do  not  look 
so!  Speak,  Gertrude!  What  is  the  matter  ?" 

But  she  did  not.  turn  her  eyes,  did  not  move  a  feature  of 
that  stony  face;  she  evidently  did  not  hear  him.  He  took 
her  hand.  It  was  cold  as  marble.  His  face  now  wore  an 
appearance  of  distress  almost  equal  to  her  own;  great  tears 
rolled  down  his  cheeks.  Once  he  stretched  forth  his  arms 
as  if  he  would  gladly  clasp  her  to  his  bosom  and  soothe  her 
like  a  little  child,  but  he  repressed  the  emotion.  "Ger- 
trude," said  lie.  leaning  forward  and  fixing  his  eyes  full 
upon  hers,  "  what  have  these  people  done  to  you  ?  Why 
do  you  care  for  them?  It'  that,  young  man  has  injured 
you— the  rascal ! — he  shall  answer  for  it;  "and  he  sprung 
to  his  feet,  The  words  and  Liu;  action  brought  Gertrude 

she,  •'  he  is  not  that.  I  am 
it;  don't,  tell, "and  she  looked 
the  bowling-alley.  "  I  am  a 
s  astonishment — for  the  fear- 
frigiitened  him — she  rose 
w.'tl)  composure  and  proposed  going  home. 


278  THE  LAM/'f/J 

Tie  accompanied  her  silently,  and  before  they  were  half- 
way up  the  hill,  where  tliev  had  left  the  carriage,  they  were 
overtaken  by  the  rest  of  their  par!  v,  driving  toward  .Sarato- 
ga. 1  hiring  the  whole  dri\  ;•  and,  I  .he  e\  cning  which  followed 
Gertrude  preserved  this  same  unnatural  composure.  Once 
or  twice  before  they  reached  llie  hotel  l>r.  G  rvseworth 
asked  her  if  she  felt  ill.  The  vcrv  tones  of  her  voice  were 
•onstrained — so  much  so  that  Kinilv  asked,  "  What  is  the 
matter,  my  dear  child  ':  " 

But  she  declared  herself  quite  well,  and  went  through 
all  the  duties  of  the  evening,  bidding  farewell  to  many  of 
her  friends,  and  arranged  with  the  Gryseworths  to  see  them 
in  the  morning. 

Emily  was  the  more  troubled  of  the  two,  for  she  could 
not  be  deceived,  and  reflected  back,  in  her  whole  de- 
meanour,  the  better  concealed  sufferings  of  Gertrude. 
Gertrude  neither  knew  at  the  time,  nor  could  afterwards 
recall,  one-half  the  occurrences  of  that  evening.  She  never 
could  understand  what  it  was  that  sustained  her  and  en- 
abled her,  half  unconsciously,  to  perform  her  part  in  them, 
How  she  so  successfully  concealed  her  misery  she  never 
could  comprehend  or  explain. 

That  Willie  was  faithless  to  his  first  iove  she  could  not 
doubt;  and  with  this  conviction  she  realised  that  the  stay 
of  her  life  had  fallen.  I'  ncle  True  and  Mrs.  Sullivan  were 
both  her  benefactors,  and  Kmdv  was  still  a  dear  and  stead- 
fast friend;  but  all  of  these  had  been  more  or  less  depend- 
ent upon  Gertrude,  and  although  she  could  ever  repose  in 
the  assurance  of  their  love,  two  had,  long  before  they 
passed  away,  come  to  lean  wholly  upon  her  youthful  arm; 
and  the  oilier  trusted  to  her  to  guide  her  uncertain  steps, 
but  those  steps  were  tending  downwards  to  the  grave.  Upon 
whom,  ;  hen,  should  Gertrude  lean?  To  whom  could  she 
with  confidence  turn  for  counsel,  protection,  support,  and 
love?  To  whom  but  Willie';'  And  Willie  had  given  his 
heart  to  another — and  Gertrude  would  soon  be  left  alone! 
Xo  wonder,  then.  tb;;t  she  wept  as  the  broken-hearted 
weep.  Wept  until  the  !'ount:i,u  of  her  tears  was  drv,  and  she 
felt  herself  sick,  faint,  and  exhausted.  And  then  she 
thought  she  heard  voices,  as  in  her  childhood,  whispering, 
'•  Gerty!—  Gerty! — poor  little  Gerty  !  v'  She  sank  upon  her 
knees,  her  uplifted  face,  her  clasped  hand.-,  the  sweet 
resignation  ol  her  c.ouutenaue.e  ^a\e  evidence  that  iu  lie? 


THE  LAMVLmJITKR  279 


prayei  to  God  her  soul  held  deep  communion  with  its 
Maker,  and  once  more  b?r  spirit  was  uttering  the  simple 
words,  ''  Here  am  I,  Lord  !  " 

Oil,  blessed  religion-  which  can  sustain  the  heart  in  such 
an  hour  as  this  !  Oh,  blessed  faith  and  trust  which,  when 
earthly  support  fails  us,  and  our  strongest  earthly  stay 
proves  but  a  rope  of  sand,  lifts  the  soul  above  all  other 
need,  and  clasps  it  f.o  the  bosom  of  its  God! 

And  now  a  gentle  hand  is  laid  upon  her  head.  She  turns 
and  sees  Emily,  whom  she  believed  to  be  asleep,  but  from 
whom  anxiety  and  the  sobs  of  Gertrude  banished  slumber, 
is  standing  by  her  side. 

"  Gertrude,"  sa;d  she,  "are  you  in  trouble,  and  did  you 
seek  to  hide  it  from  me?  Do  not  turn  from  me,  Ger- 
trude!" and,  throwing  her  arms  around  her,  she  drew  her 
head  close  to  her  bosom,  and  whispered,  "  Tell  me  all,  my 
darling!  What  is  the  matter  with  my  poor  child?" 

And  Gertrude  unburdened  her  heart  to  Emily,  disclosing 
to  her  the  only  secret  she  had  ever  kept  from  her;  and 
Emily  wept  as  she  listened,  and  when  Gertrude  had  finished 
she  pressed  her  ag.-iti  and  again  to  her  heart,  exclaiming 
with  an  excitement  which  Gertrude  had  never  before  wit- 
nessed in  the  usually  placid  blind  girl,  '•'  Strange,  strange, 
that  you,  too,  should  be  thus  doomed!  Oh,  Gertrude,  my 
darling,  we  may  well  weep  together:  but  still,  believe  me, 
your  sorrow  is  less  bitter  than  mine!  " 

And  then  in  the  darkness  of  that  midnight  hour  was 
Gertrude's  confidence  rewarded  by  the  revelation  of  that 
taleof  grief  and  woe  which  twenty  years  before  had  blighted 
Emilys  youth,  and  which  was  still  vivid  to  her  reoollec^c.i, 
••Casting  over  her  life  a  dark  shadow,  of  which  her  blindness 
*ras  but  a  single  feature. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

A   TALE    OF    SORROW. 


"I  WAS  younger  than  you,  Gertrude,"  said  she,  "when 
my  trial  came,  and  hardly  the  same  peixm  in  any  respect 
that  I  have  been  since  you  tii"<t  knew  me.  My  mother  died 


280  TITR  LAMPLIGHTER. 

when  I  was  too  young  to  retain  any  recollection  of  her;  but 
my  father  soon  married  again,  and  in  that  step-parent  I 
found  a  love  and  care  which  fully  compensated  my  loss.  1 
can  recall  her  now  as  she  looked  towards  the  latter  part  of 
her  life — a  tall,  delicate,  feeble  woman,  with  a  very  sweet 
face.  She  was  a  widow  when  my  father  married  her,  and 
had  one  son,  who  became  my  sole  companion,  the  partner 
of  all  my  youthful  pleasures.  You  told  me,  many  years 
ago,  that  I  could  not  imagine  how  much  you  loved  Willie, 
and  I  then  had  nearly  confided  to  you  my  early  history,  and 
to  convince  you  that  my  owii  experience  taught  me  how  to 
understand  such  a  love;  but  I  checked  myself,  for  you  were 
too  young  then  to  know  so  sad  a  story  as  mine.  How  dear 
my  young  playmate  became  to  me  no  words  can  express. 
The  office  which  each  tilled,  the  influence  which  each  of  us 
exerted  upon  the  other,  creat  >d  mutual  dependence;  for 
though  his  was  the  leading  spirit,  the  strong  and  deter- 
mined will,  and  I  was  ever  submissive  to  a  rule  which  to  my 
easily  influenced  nature  was  never  irksome,  there  was  one 
respect  in  which  my  bold  young  protector  and  ruler  ever 
looked  to  me  for  aid.  It  was  to  act  as  mediator  between 
him  and  my  father;  for  while  the  boy  was  almost  an  idol 
to  hjs  mother,  he  was  ever  treated  with  coldness  and  dis- 
trust by  my  father,  who  never  appreciated  his  noble  quali- 
ties, but  seemed  always  to  regard  him  with  dislike. 

''That  my  father'-  sternne-s  towards  her  son  was  dis- 
tressing to  our  mother  1  doubt  not;  for  I  remember  the 
anxiety  with  which  she  -trove  to  conceal  his  faults  and  the 
frequent,  occasions  on  which  she  instructed  me  to  propitiate 
the  parent,  who,  for  mv  sake,  would  often  forgive  the  boy, 
whose  adventurous  disposition  was  continually  bringing 
him  into  co]li.-ion  with  one  of  whose  seventy,  when  dis- 
pleased, you  can  judge.  My  step-mother  had  been  poor  in 
her  widowhood,  ami  her  child  having  inherited  nothing 
which  he  could  call  his  own,  was  wholly  dependent  upon 
my  father's  bountv.  This  was  a  stinging  cause  of  mortifi- 
cation to  the  pride  of  which  even  as  a  boy  he  had  an  unus- 
ual share;  and  often  have  I  seen  him  irritated  at  the  recep- 
tion of  favours  which  he  we!!  understood  were  far  from 
being  awarded  bv  a  paternal  hand. 

"  While  our  mother  was  .-pared  to  us  we  lived  in  com- 
parative harmonv.  but  when  1  was  sixteen  years  old  she 
suddenly  died.  Well  do  I  remember  the  last  ni#ht  of  her 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  281 

lite,  HO;  calling  me  to  her  bedside  and  saying,  'Emily,  my 
dying  prayer  is  that  you  will  be  a  guardian  ungel  to  my 
boy!'  God  forgive  me/' ejaculated  the  teai/ful  blind  girl, 
"if  I  have  been  faithless  in  the  trust! 

"He  of  whom  I  am  telling  you  was  the.,  about  eighteen. 
Fie  had  lately  become  a  clerk  in  my  father's  employ  against 
his  will,  for  he  desired  a  collegiate  education;  but  my 
father  was  determined,  and  at  Ms  mother's  and  mypersua- 
siou  he  was  induced  to  submit.  My  step-mother's  death 
knit  the  tie  between  her  son  and  myself  more  closely  than 
ever,  lie  continued  an  inmate  of  our  house,  and  we  passed 
a  deal  of  time  in  the  enjoyment  of  each  other's  society;  for 
my  father  was  much  from  home,  and  when  there,  retired 
to  his  library,  leaving  us  to  entertain  each  other.  I  was 
then  a  school-girl,  fond  of  books,  and  an  excellent  student. 
How  often,  when  you  have  spoken  of  the  help  Willie  was 
in  your  studies,  have  I  been  reminded  of  the  time  when 
I  received  similar  encouragement  and  aid  from  my  youth- 
ful friend,  who  was  ever  ready  to  exert  hand  and  brain  in 
my  behalf  !  liut  we  were  not  invariably  happy.  Often  did 
my  father's  face  wear  a  frown  which  I  dreaded  to  see;  while 
the  disturbed  and  occasionally  angry  countenance  of  his 
step-son  denoted  that  some  storm  had  occurred,  probably 
at  the  counting-house,  of  which  I  had  no  knowledge,  except 
from  its  after  effects.  My  office  c.f  mediator,  too,  was  sus- 
pended from  the  fact  that  the  censure  arose  concerning 
some  supposed  mismanagement  of  business  matters  by  the 
young  and  inexperienced  clerk.  Matters  went  on  thus  for 
six  months,  when  it  became  evident  that  my  father  had. 
either  been  influenced  by  insinuations  from  some  foreign 
quarter,  or  had  himself  conceived  a  new  idea.  lie  is  h<m- 
3st  and  straightforward  in  his  purposes,  whatever  they  may 
be,  and  incapable  of  carrying  out  any  species  of  arti  fice.  V\'o 
saw  that  he  was  resolved  to  put  a  check  upon  the  freedom 
of  intercourse  which  had  subsisted  between  the  two  youth- 
ful inmates  of  the  house,  to  forward  which  purpose  lie  intro- 
duced in  the  position  of  housekeeper  Mrs.  Ellis,  who  has  con- 
tinued with  us  ever  since.  The  almost  constant  preseiice 
of  this  stranger,  and  the  interference  of  my  father  with  his 
step-son's  familiar  intimacy  with  me,  indicated  his  inten- 
tion to  destroy  the  closeness  of  our  friendship. 

••'  It  is  true.  I  lent  myself  unhesitatingly  to  a  species  of 
petty  deception  to  elude  tiie  vigilance  which  would  have  kept 


7V//-; 


us  apart.  My  father,  however,  saw  more  of  our  manum- 
vring  than  we  were  aware  of.  ami  imagined  far  more  than 
ever  in  reality  existed.  He  watched  us  carefully,  and,  con- 
trary to  his  usual  course  of  proceeding,  t'orliorc  I'm1  a  time 
any  interference.  1  have  since  heeu  led  to  tiiink  that  he 
designed  to  wean  us  from  each  other  in  a  less  unnatural 
manner  than  that  which  he  had  at.  first  attempted,  l>y  tak- 
ing the  earliest  opportunity  to  transfer  his  step-son  to  a  sit- 
uation connected  with  his  own  mercantile  establishment  in 
a  foreign  country,  or  a  distant  part  of  our  o\vn  :  and  for- 
bore, until  his  plans  were  ripe,  to  distress  me  by  giving  way 
to  the  feelings  of  displeasure  which  were  burning  within 
him—  for  he  was,  and  had  ever  been,  as  kind  and  indulgent 
towards  his  undeserving  child  as  was  consistent  with  a  due 
maintenance  to  his  authority. 

"  Before  such  a  course  cniild  be  carried  out.  however, 
circumstances  occurred,  and  suspicions  became  aroused, 
which  destroyed  one  of  their  victims,  and  plunged  the 
other  — 

Here  Emily's  voice  failed  her.  She  laid  her  head  upon 
flcrtrude's  shoulder  and  subbed  bitterly. 

''  Do  not  try  to  tell  me  the  rest,  dear  Kmilv,"  said  (ler- 
trude.  "'It  is  enough  for  me  to  know  that  von  are  so 
unhappy.  Do  not  distress  yourself  by  dwelling,  for  mv 
sake,  upon  past  sorrows.*' 

"  Past!  "  replied  Krnily,  recovering  her  voice  and  wiping 
away  her  tears.  "  No,  they  are  never  pa.-i.  Nor  am  1 
unhappy,  (Jertrude.  it  is  but  rarely  that  my  peace  is 
shaken;  nor  would  I  now  allow  my  weak  ii'Tves  to  be 
unstrung  by  imparting  to  another  the  secrets  of  that  never- 
to-be-  t'ortro  (ten  time  of  trial,  were  it.  not  that,  since  you 
know  so  well  how  harmoniously  and  sweetly  mv  life  is  pass- 
ing on  to  its  great  and  eternal  awakening,  1  desire  to  prove 
to  my  darl  ing  child  the  power  of  that  heavenly  faith  which 
has  turned  mv  darkness  into  marvellous  light,  and  made 
aHli-'tions  such  as  mine  the  blessed  harbingers  of  ever-dur- 
ing  joy. 

"  1  was  suddenly  taken  ill  with  a  fever.  Mrs.  Klli.s, 
whom  I  had  always  treated  wit  h  coldness,  and  often  with 
disdain,  nursed  me  by  night  and  day  with  a  careami  devo- 
tion which  1  did  not  expect,  and  under  her  nursing,  and 
the  skilful  treatment  of  Dr.  .Jeremv.  I  began  to  recover. 
One  day.  when  I  was  able  to  be,  up  and  dressed  for  several 


TIfK  LA 


hours  at  a  time,  I  went,  for  change  of  air  and  scene  into  my 
father's  librarv,  and  there  lay  lialf  reclining  upon  the  sofa. 
,M  rs.  Kllis  had  gone  to  attend  to  household  duties.  but.  before 
siie  left  me  she  placed  within  my  reach  a  small  table,  upon 
which  were  arranged  various  phials,  glasses,  etc.,  and 
other  things  which  I  might  require  before  her  return.  It 
was  in  an  evening  in  June,  and  I  lay  watching  the  approach 
of  sunset  from  an  oppo.-ite  window.  I  was  oppressed  with  a 
sad  sense  of  loneliness,  for  during  the  past  six  weeks  I  had 
enjoyed  no  society  but  that  of  my  nurse  and  periodical 
visits  from  niv  father:  and  felt,  therefore,  no  common  pleas- 
ure when  my  most  congenial  but  now  nearly  forbidden  asso- 
ciate entered  the  room.  lie  had  not  seen  me  since  my  ill- 
ness, and  after  this  protracted  and  painful  separation  our 
meeting  was  tender  and  affectionate,  lie  had,  with  all  the 
fire  of  a  hot  and  ungoverned  temper,  a  woman's  depth  of 
feeling,  warmth  of  heart,  and  sympathising  sweetness  of 
manner.  Well  do  I  remember  the  expression  of  his  noble 
face,  the  manlv  tones  of  his  voice,  as,  seated  beside  me  on 
the  wide  couch,  he  bathed  the  temples  of  my  aching  head 
with  eau-de-cologne,  which  lie  took  from  the  table  near  by, 
at  the  same  time  expressing  again  and  again  his  joy  at  once 
more  seeing  me. 

''How  long  we  had  sat  thus  T  cannot  tell,  but  the  twi- 
light was  deepening  in  the  room  when  we  were  suddenly 
interrupted  by  my  father,  who  entered  abruptly,  came 
towards  us  with  hasty  steps,  but  stopping  short  when  within 
a  yard  or  two,  confronted  his  step-son  with  such  a  look  of 
angry  contempt  as  I  had  never  before  seen  upon  his  face. 
The  latter  rose  and  stood  before  him  with  a  glance  of  proud 
defiance,  and  then  ensued  a  scene  which  1  have  neither  the 
wish  nor  power  to  describe. 

"  It  is  sufficient  to  say  that  in  the  double  accusation 
which  my  excited  parent  now  brought  against  the  object  of 
his  wrath,  he  urged  the  fact  of  his  seeking  bv  mean,  base, 
and  contemptible  artiliee  to  win  the  affections,  and  with 
them  the  expected  fortune,  of  his  onlv  child  as  a  secondary 
and  pardonable  crime  compared  with  his  deeper,  darker, 
and  just  but  detected  guilt  of  forgery  —  forgery  of  a  large 
amount,  and  upon  his  benefactor's  name. 

"To  this  day,  so  far  as  1  kn<>w."  said  Kmilv.  with  feeling, 
'•'that  charge  remains  uncont  radicted  ;  but  I  did  not  then, 
I  do  not  now,  and  1  never  can  believe  it.  Whatever  were 


284  TIFK  T.AWl'J.TdllTFM. 

his  faults — a7ul  his  impetuous  temper  betrayed  him  into 
many — of  this  dark  criim — [hough  1  have  not  even  his  own 
word  of  attestation—  I  dare  pronounce  him  innocent. 

"  You  cannot,  wonder,  <  lert  rude,  that  in  my  feeble  condi- 
tion 1  was  hardly  capable  of  realising  at  the,  time,  far  less 
of  retaining,  any  distinct  recollection  of  the  circumstances 
that  followed  my  father's  words.  A  few  dim  pictures,  how- 
ever, the  hist  my  poor  eyes  ever  beheld,  are  still  engraved 
upon  my  memory  and  visible  to  my  imagination.  Mv 
father  stood  witli  "his  back  to  the  light,  and  from  the  first 
moment  of  his  entering  the  room  1  never  saw  his  face 
au'ain;  but  the  countenance  of  the  object  of  his  accusation, 
illumined  as  it  was  by  the  last  rays  of  the  golden  sunset, 
stands  ever  in  the  foreground  of  my  recollection.  His  head 
was  thrown  proudly  back;  conscious  innocence  proclaimed 
itself  in  his  clear,  calm  eye,  which  shrunk  not  from  the 
closest  scrutiny;  Ins  hand  was  clenched,  as  if  he  were  vainly 
striving  to  repress  the  passion  whi'-h  proclaimed  itself  in 
thw  compressed  lips,  the  set  teeth,  the  deep  and  angry 
indignation  which  overspread  his  face.  He  did  not  speak — 
apparently  he  could  not  command  voice  to  do  so  ;  but  mv 
father  continued  to  upbraid  him  in  language  cutting  and 
seven-,  though  I  remember  not  a  word  of  it.  It  was  fearful 
to  watch  the  working  of  the  young  man's  face,  while  he 
stood  there  listening  to  taunts  and  enduring  reproaches 
which  were  believed  by  him  who  uttered  them  to  be  just 
and  merited,  but  which  wrought  the  youth  to  a  degree  of 
frenzy  which  it  was  terrible  to  witness.  Suddenly  he  took 
one  step  forward,  slowly  lifted  the  clenehed  hand  which 
had  hitherto  hung  at  Irs  side.  I  kno\v  not  whether  he 
might  then  have  intended  to  call  Heaven  to  witness  his 
innocence  of  the  crime,  or  whether  he  might  have  de- 
signed to  strike  my  father;  for  1  sprang  from  mv  seat 
pi  eparcd  to  rush  between  them,  and  implore  them  for 
my  sake,  to  desist;  but  my  strength  failed  me,  and,  with 
a  shriek.  I  sunk  hack  in  a  fainting  lit. 

'•Oh,  the   horror  of  my  awakening!      Ifowslial1.    I   fuid 

(lertrude. 
and.  mad- 
Heaven is 

mv  witness,  1  never 
uttered  words  that  s 
1  was  too  frantic,  and  knew  not  what  1  said!  v 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  285 


"What!"  exclaimed  Gertrude,  "he  did  not— 

"No,  no!  he  did  not — he  <lid  no!  put  out  my  eyes!" 
exclaimed  Kmily  ;  '•'  it  was  an  accident.  lie  reached  for- 
ward for  the  cau-de-cologne,  which  lie  had  just  had  in 
his  hand.  There  were  several  bottles,  and  in  his  haste 
he  seized  one  containing  a  powerful  acid  which  Mrs. 
Ellis  had.  found  occasion  to  use  in  my  sick-room.  It  had 
a  heavy  glass  stopper — and  he — his  hand  being  unsteady; 
and  he"spi!t  it  all— 

''On  your  eyes?'''  shrieked  Gertrude. 

Emily  bowed  her  head. 

"Oh,  poor  Emilv!"  cried  Gertrude,  "and  wretched, 
wretched  young  man  !  " 

"Wretched  indeed!"  ejaculated  Kmily.  "  Bestow  all 
your  pity  on  him,  Gertrude,  for  his  was  the  harder  fate 
of  the  two.'' 

"Oh,  Emih  !  how  intense  must  have  been  the  pain  vou 
endured!  JIow  could  vou  suffer  so,  and  live  ?" 

"Do  you  mean  the  pain  from  my  eyes?  That  was 
severe  indeed,  but  the  mental  agony  was  worse!" 

"  What  became  of  him?"  said  Gertrude. 

"  I  cannot  give  you  an  exact  account  of  what  followed. 
I  was  in  no  state  to  know  anything  of  my  father's  treat- 
ment of  his  step-son.  He  banished  him  from  his  sight 
and  knowledge  for  ever  ;  and  it  is  easy  to  believe  it  was 
with  no  added  gentleness,  since  he  had  now,  besides  the 
other  crimes  imputed  to  him.  been  the  cause  of  his  daugh- 
ters blindness.'" 

"And  did  you  never  hear  from  him  again?" 

"Yes.  Through  the  good  doctor — who  alone  knew  all 
the  circumstances-— I  learned  that  he  had  sailed  for  South 
America;  and  in  the  hope  of  once  more  communicating 
with  the  poor  exile,  and  assuring  him  of  mv  continued 
love.  1  rallied  from  the  sickness,  fever,  and  blindness  into 
which  I  had  fallen;  the  doctor  had  even  a  thought  of 
restoring  sight  to  mv  eves.  Several  months  passed,  and 
mv  kind  friend,  who  was  persevering  in  his  iiujuirie?.  hav- 
ing learned  the  residence  and  address  of  the  ill-fated 
youth,  I  was  commencing,  through  the  aid  of  .Mrs.  Kllis 
(whom  pitv  had  now  won  to  mv  service*,  a  letter  of  love, 
and  an  enireatv  for  his  return.  v.\hen  a  fatal  seal  \\as  put 
to  all  my  earthly  hopes.  He  died  in  a  foreign  land,  alone, 
unnursed,  and.  uncured  for  ;  he  died  of  that  southern 


'2  S  6  THE  LA  MVL I  OUTER. 

disease  which  takes  the  stranger  for  its  victim ;  and  I,  on 
hearing  the  news  of  it.  sunk  I, ark  into  a  more  pitiable 
malady;  and — and  alas,  lor  the  encouragement  of  the  good 
doctor  had  held  out  of  my  gradual  restoration  to  sight! — I 
\vept  all  his  hopes  away!  'J 

Emily  paused.  (Jeviiude  put  her  arms  around  her,  and 
they  clung  closely  to  cadi  other;  grief  and  sorrow  made 
their  union  dearer  than  ever. 

'*  I  was  then,  Gertrude."  continued  Emily,  "a  child  of 
the  world,  eager  for  worldly  pleasures,  and  ignorant  of  any 
other.  Fora  time,  therefore,  1  dwelt  in  utter  darkness— 
the  darkness  of  despair.  1  began,  too.  again  to  feed  my 
bodily  strength  restored,  and  to  look  forward  to  a  useless 
and  miserable  life.  You  can  form  no  idea  of  the  utter 
wretchedness  in  which  my  davs  were  passed. 

"  Hut  at  last  a  dawn  came  to  my  dark  night.  It  came 
in  the  shape  of  a  minister  of  Christ,  our  own  dear  Mr. 
Arnold,  who  opened  the  eyes  of  my  understanding,  lit  the 
lamp  of  religion  in  my  now  softened  soul,  taught  me  the 
way  to  peace,  and  led  my  feeble  steps  into  that  blessed  rest 
which  even  on  earth  remaineth  to  the  people  of  God. 

"In  the  eyes  of  the  world  I  am  si  ill  the  unfortunate 
blind  girl;  cut  otf  from  every  enjoyment;  but  so  great  is 
the  awakening  I  have  experienced  that,  to  me  it  is  far  other- 
wise, and  I  am  read  v  to  exclaim,  like  him  who  in  old  time 
experienced  his  Saviour's  healing  power.  'Once  I  was 
blind,  but  now  I  see  !  " 

Gertrude  half  forgot  her  own  troubles  while  listening  to 
Emily's  sad  story;  and  when  the  latter  laid  her  hand  upon 
her  head,  and  prayed  thai  she  too  might  he  lilted  fora, 
patient  endurance  of  trial. and  be  made  stronger  and  better 
thereby,  she  felt  her  heart  penetrated  with  that  deep  love 
and  trust  which  seldom  come  to  us  except,  in  the  hour  <•!' 
sorrow,  and  prove  that  it  is  through  suffering  only  we  ar. 
made  perfect. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  287 

CHAPTER  XL. 

THE    HOUR   OF    PERIL. 

As  Mr.  Graham  had  expressed  in  his  letter  the  intention 
of  being  at  the  steamboat  wharf  in  New  York  to  meet  n;sj 
daughter  and  Gertrude  on  their  arrival,  Dr.  Jeremy  thought 

it  unnecessary  to  accompany  his  charges  further  than  Al- 
bany, where  lie  could  see  them  safely  on  their  way,  and 
then  proceed  to  Boston  with  his  wife  over  the  Western 
Kail  road. 

"Good-bye,  Gerty,"  said  the  doctor,  as  he  bade  them 
farewell  on  the  deck  of  one  of  the  Hudson  river-boats. 
"  I'm  afraid  you've  lost  your  heart  in  Saratoga;  you  don't 
look  quite  so  bright  as  you  did  when  we  first  arrived  there. 
It  can't  have  strayed  far,  however,  I  think,  in  such  a  place 
as  that;  so  be  sure  and  find  it  before  I  see  von  in  Boston." 

It  wanted  a  few  minutes  only  of  the  time  for  the  boat  to 
start,  when  a  gav  group  of  fashionables  appeared  talking 
and  laughing.  Among  them  was  Miss  Clinton,  whose  com- 
panions were  making  her  the  object  of  a  great  deal  of  wit 
and  pleasantry,  by  which,  although  she  feigned  to  be 
teased,  her  smiling  face  gave  evidence  that  she  felt  flattered 
and  pleased.  At  length  the  significant  gesture  of  some  of 
the  party,  and  a  half-smothered  hush-h!  indicated  the 
approach  of  some  one,  and  presently  \Yilliam  Sullivan, 
with  a  travelling-bag  in  his  hand,  a  heavy  shawl  thrown 
over  one  arm,  and  his  grave  face,  as  if  he  had  not  recovered 
from  the  chagrin  of  the  previous  evening,  appeared,  passed 
Gertrude,  whose  veil  was  drawn  over  her  face,  and  joined 
Isabel,  placing  his  burden  on  a  chair  which  stood  near. 

Just  then  the.  violent  ringing  of  the  bell  gave  notice  to 
all  but  the  passengers  to  quit  the  boat,  and  he  was  com- 
pelled to  make  haste  to  depart.  As  he  did  so  he  drew  :i 
step  nearer  Gertrude,  a  step  further  I'MMII  her  whom  he  was 
addressing,  and  the  former  distinguished  (he  words: 
"  Then,  if  you  will  do  voitr  best  to  return  on  Thursday  I 
will  trv  not  to  lie  impatient  in  the  meant  line."' 

A  moment  more  and  the  boat  was  on  itswav:  just  then  a 
i all  figure,  who  reachud  the  landing  jutt  ;u  6 he  started. 


288  THE  LAUPL 

had,  to  tho  horror  of  the;  spectators,  daringly  leaped  the 
gap  that  already  divided  her  from  the  shore;  after  which 
lie  sought  the  gentlemen's  saloon,  threw  himself  upon  a 
couch,  drew  a  book  from  his  pocket,  and  commenced  mul- 
ing. 

As  soon  as  the  boat  was  fairly  under  weigh  and  quiet 
prevailed  in  the,  neighbourhood,  Emily  spoke  softly  to  Ger- 
trude.  and  said  — 

"  Didn't  1  just  now  hear  Isabel  Clinton's  voice?'' 

"She  is  here,"  replied  Gertrude,  "'on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  deck,  but  sitting  with  her  back  towards  us." 

"  Didn't  she  see  us  ?  '"' 

"  I  believe  she  did,"  answered  Gertrude.  "She  stood 
looking  this  way  while  her  party  were  arranging  their 
seats/' 

'•Perhaps  she  is  going  to  New  York  to  meet  Mrs. 
Graham." 

"  Very  possible,"  replied  Gertrude.  "1  didn't  think  of 
it  before." 

"  Who  was  the  gentleman  who  spoke  to  her  just  before 
the  boat,  started?  " 

"  Willie,"  was  the  tremulous  response. 

Emily  pressed  Gertrude's  hand  and  was  silent.  She,  too, 
had  overheard  his  farewell  remark,  and  felt  its  significance. 
Several  hours  passed,  and  they  had  proceeded  some  dis- 
tance down  the  river;  for  the  mot  ion  of  t  he  boat  was  rapid — • 
too  rapid,  as  it  seemed  to  (iertrude,  for  safety.  She  ob- 
served several  circumstances,  which  excited  so  much  alarm, 
that,  effectually  aroused  from  her  train  of  reflection,  she 
bad  leisure  only  to  take  into  view  her  own  and  Kmilv's 
situation,  and  its  probable  consequence. 

Several  times,  since  they  left  Albany,  bad  the  boat  passed 
and  repassed  another  of  similar  size,  with  living  freight, 
and  hound  in  tin:  ,-anie  direction.  Occasionally,  during 
their  headlong  course,  t  he  contiguity  of  the  two  boats  ex- 
cited serious  alai  m.  They  were  racing,  and  racing  des- 
perately. Some  few,  regardless  of  danger,  watched  with 
pleased,  eagerness  the  mad  career  of  rival  ambition;  lint  by 
I': 1 1'  tin  majorit  v  of  t  tie  company,  who  had  rea  -on  and  sense, 
iin.ked  on  in  indignation  and  fear.  The  usual  stopping 
phi'-e-  oil  the  river  were  either  recklessly  passed  by,  or  only 
]i,in-ed  ai,  while,  with  indecent  haste,  passengers  were 
plmMled  backwards  and  forwv-ds  ut  the  risk  of  life  and 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  289 

limb,  their  baggage  (or  somebody's  else)  unceremoniously 
flung  after  them,  the  panting,  snorting  engine  in  the  mean- 
time bellowing  with  rage  at  the  check  thus  unwillingly  im- 
posed upon  its  freedom. 

Gertrude  sat  with  her  hand  locked  in  Emily's,  anxiously 
watching  every  indication  of  terror,  and  endeavouring  to 
judge  from  the  countenances  and  words  of  her  most  intelli- 
gent-looking fellow-travellers  the  actual  degree  of  their  in- 
security. Emilv,  rendered  through  her  acute  hearing, 
conscious  of  the  prevailing  alarm,  was  calm,  though  very 
pale,  and  from  time  to  time  questioned  (iertrude  concern- 
ing the  vicinity  of  the  other  l>oat,  a  collision  with  which 
was  the  principal  cause  of  fear. 

At  length  their  boat  for  a  few  moments  distanced  its 
competitor  ;  the  assurance  of  perfect  safety  was  impres- 
sively asserted  ;  anxiety  began  to  be  relieved,  and  most  of 
the  passengers  gained  their  wonted  composure.  Emily 
looked  pallid,  and,  as  (lertrude  fancied,  a  little  faint. 
"  Let  us  go  below,  Emily/'-'  she  said  ;  "  it  appears  now  to  be 
very  quiet  and  safe." 

Gertrude  opened  her  travelling-basket,  which  contained 
their  luncheon.  It  consisted  merely  of  such  dry  morsels 
as  had  been  hastily  collected  and  put  up  at  their  hotel,  in 
Albany,  by  Dr.  Jeremy's  direction.  Gertrude  was  hesitat- 
ing which  she  could  recommend  to  Emily, when  a  waiter 
appeared,  bearing  a  tray  of  refreshments,  which  he  placed 
upon  the  table. 

"'  This  is  not  for  us,"  said  Gertrude.  "You  have  made 
a  mistake." 

"No  mistake,"  replied  the  man.  '"'Orders  was  for  de 
blind  lady  and  hansum  young  miss.  J  only  'beys  orders. 
Anything  furder,  miss?" 

Gertnwle  dismissed  the  man  with  the  assurance  that  they 
wanted  nothing  more,  and  then,  turning  to  Emilv,  asked, 
with  an  attempt  at  cheerfulness,  what  they  should  do  with 
this  Aladdin-like  repast. 

"Eat  it,  my  dear,  if  you  can,"  said  Emily;  "it  is  nft 
doubt  meant  for  us." 

"Hut  to  whom  are  we  indebted  for  it  ?  " 

"To  my  blindness  and  your  be.-iutv.  I  suppose,"'  said 
Emily,  smiling.  "  Perhaps  the  ehie!'  steward,  or  ma.-ter  <if 
ceremonies,  took  pity  on  our  inabilitv  to  come  to  dinner, 
and  so  sent  tiie  dinner  to  us." 


200  THE  LAMPLWUTKR 

The  sable  waiter,  when  he  came  to  remove  the  dishes, 
rcallv  iooked  sad  to  see  how  little  they  had  eaten.  Gertrude 
drew  out  her  purse,  and  after  bestowing  a  fee  upon  the  man, 
inquired  whom  she  should  pay  for  the  meal. 

"  Pay.  miss!  "  said  the  man.  grinning.  "  Bless  my  stars  ! 
de  gentleman  pays  fur  all  !" 

"  Who?  What  gentleman?"  asked  Gertrude,  in  surprise. 

But  before  he  could  reply  another  waiter  appeared  and 
beckoned  to  his  fellow-waiter,  who  snatched  up  his  tray 
and  trotted  off,  leaving  Gertrude  and  Emily  to  wondei  who 
the  gentleman  might  be. 

•  •••••• 

"  What  time  is  it?"  asked  she,  on  awaking. 

"Nearly  a  quarter  past  three,"  replied  (I  erf  rude,  glanc- 
ing at  her  watch  (a  beautiful  gift  from  a  class  of  her  former 
pupils). 

Emily  started  up.  "  We  can't  be  far  from  Xew  York/" 
said  she;  '"  where  arc  we  now  ?  " 

"I  think  we  must  be  near  the  Palisades  •"  said  Ger- 
trude ;  "  stay  here,  1  will  go  and  see."  She  passed  across 
the  saloon,  and  was  ascending  the  staircase,  when  she  was 
alarmed  by  a  rushing  sound,  mingled  with  hurried  steps. 
She  kept  on,  however,  and  had  gained  the  head  of  the  stair- 
way, when  a  man  rushed  past  gasping  for  breath,  and 
shrieking,  "Fire  !  fire  !"  A  scene  of  dismay  and  con- 
fusion ensued  too  terrible  for  description.  Shrieks  rose 
upon  the  air.  groans  and  cries  of  despair  burst  from  hearts 
that  were  breaking  with  fear  for  others,  or  maddened  at  the 
certainty  of  their  own  destruction.  Those  who  had  never 
prayed  before  [inured  out  their  souls  in  the  fervent  ejacula- 
tion. "  Oh,  m v  (rod  I  " 

Gertrude  gazed  around  upon  everv  side.  Towards  the 
centre  of  the  boat,  where  the  machinery,  heated  to  the  last 
degree,  had  fired  the  vessel,  a  huge  volume  of  (lame  was 
visible,  darting  out,  its  fiery  1'angs,  and  causing  the  stoutest 
hearts  to  shrink  and  croueh  in  horror.  She  gave  but  one 
glance;;  then  bounded  down  the  stairs  to  save  Emily.  But 
she  was  arrested  at  the  very  onset.  One  step  only  had  she 
taken  when  -he  \\as  encircled  by  two  powerful  arms,  and  a 
mo  vein  en  t  made  to  rush  u  it  h  her  u  pon  deck  ;  wh  de  a  famil- 
iar voice  gasped  forth,  "Gertrude,  my  en  Id  '  my  own 
darling!  B"  quiet  -be  quiet  !  1  will  save  you  !" 

h>he   wus  struggling  madly.     '•  ]Slo,   uo  1 "  ahouted  she' 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  201 

"Emily  !  Emily  !     Let  me  die  !  Imt  I  must  find  Emily  !" 

"  Where  is  she?  "  asked  Mr.  Philli})s  ;  for  it  was  lie. 

"There,  there,'' pointed  Gertrude — "'in  the  cabin.  Let 
me  go  !  let  me  go  ! '' 

lie  cast  one  look  around  him  ;  then  said,  in  a  firm  tone, 
"  Be  calm,  my  child  !  1  can  save  you  both  ;  follow  me 
closely  ! " 

With  a  leap  he  cleared  the  staircase,  and  rushed  into  the 
cabin.  In  the  furthest  corner  knelt  Emily,  her  hands 
clasped,  and  her  face  like  that  of  an  augei. 

Gertrude  and  Mr.  IMiillip.s  were  by  her  side  in  an  instant. 
lie  stooped  to  lift  her  in  his  arms,  Gertrude  at  the  same  time 
exclaiming,  "Come,  Emily,  come  !  "fie  will  save  us!" 
But  Emily  resisted.  "  Leave  me,  Gertrude — leave  me,  and 
save  yourselves  !  Oh  !"  said  she,  imploringly,  "'leave  ine, 
and  save  my  child."  But  ere  the  words  had  left  her  lips 
she  was  borne  half  way  across  the  saloon  ;  Gertrude  fol- 
lowed closely. 

"  If  we  can  cross  to  the  bows  of  the  boat  we  are  safe  !  " 
said  Mr.  Phillips,  in  a  husky  voice. 

To  do  so,  however,  proved  impossible.  The  centre  of 
the  boat  was  now  one  sheet  of  flame.  "  Good  heavens  !" 
exclaimed  he,  "we  are  too  late  !  we  must  go  back  !  " 

With  much  difliculty  they  regained  the  saloon.  The 
boat,  as  soon  as  the  iire  was  discovered,  had  been  turned 
towards  the  shore,  struck  upon  the  ?:oeks,  and  parted  in  this 
middle.  Her  bows  were  brought  near  to  the  land,  near 
enough  to  almost  ensure  the  safety  of  such  persons  as  were 
at  the  top  part  of  the  vessel.  But,  alas  for  those  near  the 
stern  ! 

Mr.  Phillips'  first  thought  was  to  beat  down  a  window- 
sash,  spring  upon  the  guards,  and.  drag  Emily  and  Ger- 
trude after  him.  Some  ropes  hung  upon  the  guards:  he 
seized  one  and  made  it  l';ist  t«the  butt:  then  turned  fo 
Gertrude,  who  stood  iirm  by  his  side.  "  Gertrude.;"  said 
he,  "  I  shall  swim  to  the  shore  wiih  Emilv.  If  the  tire 
comes  too  near,  cling  to  the  guards;  as  a  last  chance  hold 
on  to  the  rope.  Keep  your  veil  flying  ;  1  shall  return.'" 

"  Xo,  no  !"  cried  Emily.     '*  Gertrude,  r'O  first.''1 

"Hush,  Emily  !"  exclaimed  Gertnide  ;  ••  we  shall  both 
be  saved.'' 

"(ding  to  my  shoulder  in  HIP  waier.  Emily/''  s.iid  Mr. 
Phillips,  utterly  regardless  of  her  protestations.  He  took 


'JOS  TUK  LAMPLIGHTER. 

her  once  more  in  his  arms  ;  there  was  a  splash,  and  they 
were  gone.  At  the  same  instant  Gertrude  was  seized  from 
behind.  She  turned  and  found  herself  grasped  by  Isabel 
Clinton,  who,  kneeling  upon  the  platform,  and  frantic  with 
terror,  was  clinging  so  closely  to  her  as  utterly  to  disable 
them  both;  she  shrieked  out,  "Oh,  Gertrude!  Gertrude! 
save  me !"  But  Gertrude,  thus  imprisoned,  she  was  pow- 
erless to  do  anything  for  her  own  or  Isabel's  salvation.  She 
looked  forth  in  the  direction  Mr.  Phillips  had  taken,  and, 
to  her  joy,  she  saw  him  returning,  lie  had  deposited  Emily 
on  board  a  boat,  and  was  now  approaching  to  claim 
another  burden.  A  volume  of  ilame  swept  so  near  the 
spot  where  the  two  alarmed  girls  were  stationed  that  Ger- 
trude felt  the  scorching  heat,  and  both  were  almost  suffo- 
cated with  smoke.  An  heroic  resolution  was  now  displayed 
by  Gertrude.  One  of  them  could  be  saved;  for  Mr.  Phil- 
lips was  within  a  few  rods  of  the  wreck.  It  should  be  Isa- 
bel !  She  had  called  on  her  for  protection,  and  it  should 
not  he  denied  !  Moreover,  Willie  loved  Isabel.  Willie 
would  weep  for  her  loss,  and  that  must  not  be.  Jfe  would 
not  weep  for  Gertrude — at.  least,  not  much  ;  and,  if  one 
must  (He,  it  should  be  she.  "Isabel."  said  she — "'Isabel, 
do  you  hear  me  ?  Stand  up  o?i  your  feet;  do  as  I  tell  you, 
and  you  shall  be  saved.  Do  you  hear  me,  Isabel  ?" 

She  heard,  shuddered;  but  did  nor  move.  Gertrude 
stooped  down,  and  wrenching  apart  the  hands  which  were 
convulsively  clenched,  sad  sternly.  "  Isabel,  if  you  do  as  I 
tell  you,  you  will  be  on  shore  in  li\e  minutes,  safe  and  well  ; 
but  if  you  stay  there  we  shall  both  be  burned  t<>  deat!  . 
For  mercy's  nuke,  get  up  quickly,  and  listen  to  me!''  Isa- 
bel rose,  fixed  her  eves  upon  Gertrude's  calm,  steadfast 
face,  and  said,  "What  must  I  do  ?  I  wiil  Irv.'' 

"  Do  you  see  thai,  person  swimming  this  way  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

''He  will  come  to  this  spof.  Hold  fast  to  that  piece  of 
rope,  and  I  will  let  you  gradually  down  to  the  water.  I5ut, 
stay!" — and,  snatching  the  deep  blue  veil  from  her  own 
bead  she  tied  it  round  the  neck  and  flung  it  over  the  fair  hair 
of  Isabel.  Mr.  Phillips  was  within  a  rod  or  1  wo.  ".Now.  Isa- 
bel, now  !"  exclaimed  Gert  rude,  "  or  \  on  \vi  1 1  be  too  late  !" 
Isabel  took  the  rope,  but  shrunk  back,  appalled  at  the  sight 
of  t  lie  water.  One  more  hoi  burst  of  lire  gave  h<-r  renewed 
courage  to  brave  a  mere  .-ecu. ing  danger;  and  aided  by 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  293 

Gertrude,  who  helped  her  over  the  guards,  she  allowed  her- 
self to  be  let  do\\n  to  the  water's  edge.  Mr.  Phillips  was 
just  in  time  to  receive  her,  for  she  was  so  utterly  exhausted 
that  she  could  not  have  clung  long  to  the  rope.  Ger- 
trude had  no  opportunity  t  follow  them  with  her  eye  ; 
her  own  situation  was  now  all-engrossing.  The  flames  had 
reached  her.  She  could  hardly  breathe.  She  could  hesi- 
tate no  longer.  She  seized  the  piece  of  rope,  and  grasping 
it  with  all  her  might,  leaped  over  the  side  of  the  vessel. 
How  long  her  strength  would  have  enabled  her  thus  to 
cling — how  long  the  guards,  as  yet  unapproached  by  the 
fire,  would  have  continued  a  sure  support  for  the  cable — 
there  was  no  opportunity  to  test  ;  for,  just  as  her  feet 
touched  the  cold  surface  of  the  water,  the  huge  wheel, 
which  was  but  a  little  distance  from  where  she  hung,  gave 
one  sudden  revolution,  sounding  like  a  death-dirge  through 
the  water,  which  came  foaming  and  dashing  up  against  the 
boat,  and,  as  it  swept  away  again,  bore  with  it  the  light 
form  of  Gertrude  ! 


CHAPTER  XLL 

SUSPENSE. 

LET  us  now  rovi.-it  the  country  seat  of  Mr.  Graham.     The 

old  gentleman,  wearied  with  travels  and  society  not  con- 
genial to  his  years,  is  pacing  up  and  down  his  garden 
walks;  his  countenance  denoting  plainly  enough  how  glad 
he  is  to  find  himself  once  more  in  his  cherished  homestead. 
It  is  supposed  that  such  satisfaction  arose  from  the  cir- 
cumstance that  the  repose  of  his  household  is  rendered 
complete  by  the  absence  of  its  excitable  mistress,  whom  he 
has  left  in  New  York.  '1  his  was  like  the  n~ood  old  times. 

.Kmilv  and  ( lertrude,  too,  are  closely  associated  with  those 
good  old  times;  and  it  adds,  great Iv  to  the  delusion  of  his 
fancy  to  dwell  upon  the  certaintv  that  thev  are  both  in  the 
house,  and  that  he  shall  see  them  both  at  dinner.  Yes, 
(lertrude  is  there,  as  well  as  the  rest,  saved — she  hardly 
knew  how — from  a  \vaterv  grive  that,  almost  engulfed  her, 
ami  established  once  mop1  in  the  peaceful  and  endeared 
spot,  now  the  dearest  to  her  on  earth. 


294-  77/7?  lA.vri.raiiTKR. 

When,  witli  some  difficulty,  restored  to  consciousness,  she 
was  informed  that  she  had  hern  picked  up  by  some  humane 

persons  who  had  pushed  a  b<  at  from  the  shore  to  rescue  the 
sufferers;  that  she  v\as  ding  t:g  to  the  chair,  which  she  had 
probably  grasped  when  washed  away  by  the  sudden  rushing 
of  tlie  wilier,  ;ind  tliat  her  situation  was  such  that,  a  mo- 
ment more,  and  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  save  her 
from  the  llamcs.  close  to  which  she  was  drifting.  But  of  all 
tlfis  she  had  herself  no  recollection.  From  the  moment  when 
she  committed  her  light  weight  to  the  frail  tenure  of  the 
rope  until  she  opened  her  eves  in  a  quiet  spot,  tind  saw 
Emily  leaning  anxiously  over  the  bed  upon  which  she  lav. 
all  had  been  a  blank  to  her  senses.  A  few  hours  from  the 
time  of  the  terrible  catastrophe  brought  Mr.  Graham  to  the 
scene,  and  the  next  dav  restored  all  three  in  safety  to  the 

old  mansion-house  in  I* .  This  venerable  habitation, 

and  its  adjoining  grounds,  wore  nearly  the  same  aspect  as 
when  they  met  the  admiring  eyes  of  Gertv  on  the  first  visit 
that  she  made  Miss  Graham  in  her  earlv  childhood  —  that 
long-expected  and  keenly-enjoyed  visit,  which  proved  a 
lasting  topic  for  her  young  mind  to  dwell  upon. 

The  old  house  had  a  look  of  contentment  and  repose. 
The  hall  door  stood  wide  open.  Mr.  (iraham's  arm-chair 
was  in  its  usual  place;  Gertrude's  birds,  of  which  Mrs.  Filis 
had  taken  excellent  care,  were  hopping  about  on  the  slen- 
der perches  of  tin-  great  Indian  cage  whi'di  hung  on  the 
wide  piazza.  The  old  bouse  ting  lav  si  retched  in  the  sun. 
Plenty  of  H"\VTS  graced  the  parlour,  and  all  was  verv  com- 
fortable. Mr.  Graham  thought  so  as  he  came  up  the  steps, 
patted  the  dog.  whistled  to  the  birds,  sat  down  in  the  arm- 
chair, and  took-  the  morning  paper  from  the  hand  of  the 
neat  housemaid.  The  dear  old  place  was  the  dear  old  place 
still. 

Mr.  Graham  ha.r-  been  hav:ng  new  experiences;  and  he  is, 
in  manv  respects,  a  changed  man.  Kmi'.v  is  sitting  in  her 
own  room.  Sh.-  is  paler  than  ever,  and  her  fa^e  has  an 
anxious  expiession.  Kvery  time  the  door  opens  she  stalls, 
trembles,  a  sudden  llus'n  overspreads  her  face,  ami  twice 
during  the  morn  in  IT  she  has  sudden!  v  burst  into  tears.  Kvery 
exertion,  even  that  of  dressing,  seem-  a  labour  to  her;  she 
cannot  listen  to  Gertrude's  reading,  but  \viil  con-tantlv 
inter  nipt  her  to  a-k  (pics;  ions  concern  ing  t  ho  burning  boat, 
her  own  and  others  ies-uc.  and  everv  circumstance  cuu- 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  295 

neeted  with  the  lute  terrible  .scene  of  agony  and  death.  Her 
nervous  system  is  shuttered,  and  Gertrude  looks  ut  her  and 
weeps. 

Gertrude  withdrew,  but  returned  in  an  hour  to  help  her 
to  dross  for  dinner — a  ceremony  which  Miss  Graham  would 
never  omit,  her  chief  desire  seeming  to  be  to  maintai/i  the 
appearance  of  health  and  happiness  in  the  presence  of  her 
father.  Gertrude  retired  to  her  own  room,  leaving  Emily 
to  bow  her  head  upon  her  hands,  and  utter  a  few  hyster- 
ical sobs.  Gertrude  is  followed  by  Mrs.  Ellis,  who  seats 
herself,  and  in  her  exciting  style  adds  to  the  poor  girl's 
fear  and  distress  by  stating  the  dreadful  eil'ect  the  recollec- 
tion of  that  shocking  accident  is  having  upon  poor  Emily. 
"She's  completely  upset,  and  if  she  don't  begin  to  mend 
in  a  day  or  two  there's  no  knowing  what  the  consequences 
may  be.  Emily  is  feeble,  and  not  lit  to  travel;  I  wish  she 
had  stayed  at  home." 

Gertrude  is  again  interrupted.  The  housemaid  brought 
her  a  letter!  With  a  trembling  hand  she  receives  it,  fear- 
ing to  look  at  the  writing  or  post-mark.  Her  first  thought 
is  of  Willie;  but  before  she  could  indulge  either  a  hope  or 
a  fear  on  that  score  the  illusion  is  dispelled,  for,  though 
the  post-mark  is  New  York,  and  lie  might  be  there,  the 
handwriting  is  wholly  strange.  She  breaks  the  seal,  and 
reads: — 

"MY  DAULIXC  GKKTKUDK, — My  much-loved  child — for 
such  you  indeed  are,  though  a  father's  agony  of  fear  and 
despair  alone  wrung  from  me  the  words  that  claimed  you. 
Jt  was  no  madness  that,  in  the  dark  hour  of  danger,  com- 
pelled me  to  clasp  you  to  my  heart,  and  call  you  mine.  A 
do/en  times  before  had  I  been  sei/.cd  by  the  same  emotion, 
.ind  as  often  had  it  been  subdued  and  smothered.  And 
.-\en  now  1  would  crush  the  promptings  of  nature,  and  de- 
part and  weep  my  poor  life  away  alone;  but  the  voice  within 
me  has  spoken  once,  and  cannot  again  be  silenced.  Had  L 
seen  you  happy,  gay,  and  light-hearted,  1  would  not  have 
asked  to  share  your  joy,  far  less  would  1  have  cast  a  shadow 
on  your  path;  but  you  are  sad  and  troubled,  my  pool1  child, 
and  your  grief  unites  the  tic  between  us  closer  than  that 
of  kindred,  and  makes  vou  a  thousand  times  mv  daughter; 
for  1  am  a  wretched,  weary  man,  and  know  how  to  feel  for 
others'  woe. 


296  THK  LAMPLIGHTER. 

"  You  have  a  kind  urn"!  ;i  gentle  heart,  my  child.  You 
have  wept  once  for  the  stranger's  sorrows — will  you  now 
refuse  to  pity,  it'  you  cannot  love,  the  solitary  parent,  who, 
with  a  breaking  heart  and  a  trembling  hand,  writes  the 
ill-fated  word  that  dooms  him,  perhaps,  to  the  hatred  and 
contempt  of  the  only  being  on  earth  with  whom  he  can 
claim  the  fellowship  of  a  natural  tie?  Twice  before  have  1 
striven  to  utter  it,  and,  laying  down  my  pen,  have  shrunk 
from  the  cruel  task.  Hut,  hard  as  it  is  to  speak,  I  find  it 
harder  to  still  the  beating  of  my  restless  heart;  therefore, 
listen  to  me,  though  it  may  be  for  the  last  time.  Is  there 
one  being  on  earth  whom  you  shudder  to  think  of  ?  Is 
there  one  associated  only  in  your  mind  uith  deeds  of 
darkness  and  of  shame  ?  Is  there  one  name  which  you 
have  from  your  childhood  learned  to  abhor  and  hate;  and, 
in  proportion  as  you  love  your  best  friend,  have  you  been 
taught  to  shrink  from  and  despise  her  worst  enemy?  It 
cannot  bo  otherwise.  Ah  !  1  tremble  to  think  how  my 
.child  will  recoil  from  her  father  when  she  learns  tho 
secret,  so  long  preserved,  so  sorrowfully  revealed,  that  he 
;a  '•  PHILLIP  AMOUY  I" 

As  Gertrude  finished  reading  this  strange  and  unintel- 
ligible letter  her  countenance  expressed  complete  bewilder- 
ment— her  eyes  glistened  with  tears,  her  face  was  Hushed 
with  excitement;  but  she  was  jvidentlv  at  a  total  loss  to 
account  for  the  meaning  of  the  stranger's  words.  She  sat 
for  an  instant  wildlv  ga/ing  into  vacancv;  then,  springing 
suddenly  up,  with  the  letter  grasped  in  one  hand,  ran  to 
Emily's  room,  to  read  tiie  wonderful  contents,  and  ask  her 
opinion  of  their  hidden  meaning.  She  stopped,  however, 
when  her  hand  was  on  the  door-lock.  Kmilv  was  already 
ill — it  would  not  do  to  distress  or  even  disturb  her;  anuj 
retreating  to  her  own  room,  Gertrude  sat  down  to  re-peruse 
the  singular  let  ter. 

That  Mr.  Phillips  and  the  letter-writer  were  identical 
she  at  once  jiereeived.  It  was  no  .slight  impression  that  his 
exclamation  and  conduct  during  the  time  of  their  immi- 
nent danger  on  board  the  boat  had  left  upon  the  mind  of 
Gertrude.  During  the  three  davs  that  succeeded  the  acci- 
dent! he  words,  '•  .My  child  !  my  own  darling  !  "  had  been 
eoui  iiiiially  ringing  in  her  ears,  and  haunting  her  imagina- 
tion. Now  the  blissful  idea  would  Hash  upon  her,  that  the 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  21>? 

noble,  disinterested  stranger,  AY  ho  had  ri.-ked  his  life  in  her 
own  and  Emilv's  cau.-e, might  indeed  be  her  father  ;and  every 
fil> re  of  her  being  had  thrilled  at  the  thought,  while  her 
head  grew  dizzy  and  confused  with  the  strong  sensation  of 
hope  that  almost  overwhelmed  her  brain. 

Her  first  inquiries,  on  recovering  consciousness,  had 
been  for  the  preserver  of  Emily  and  Isabel,  but  he  had  dis- 
appeared; no  trace  of  him  could  be  obtained,  and  Mr. 
Graham  arriving  and  hurrying  them  from  the  neighbour- 
hood, she  had  been  compelled  to  abandon  the  hope  of  see- 
ing him  again.  The  same  motives  which  induced  her  not 
to  consult  Emilv  concerning  the  mysterious  epistle  had 
hitherto  prevented  her  from  imparting  the  secret  of  Mr. 
Phillips'  inexplicable  language  and  manner;  but  she  had 
dwelt  upon  them  none  the  less. 

The  first  perusal  of  the  letter  served  only  to  excite  and 
alarm  her.  But  as  she  sat  for  an  hour  gazing  upon  the 
page,  which  she  read  and  re-read  until  it  was  blistered 
with  the  varying  expression  of  her  face  denoted  the  emo- 
tions that,  one  after  another,  possessed  her;  and  which  at 
last,  snatching  a  sheet  of  paper,  she  committed  to  writing 
witii  a  feverish  rapidity  that  betrayed  how  she  staggered 
beneath  the  weight  of  contending  hopio  and  gloomy  fears. 

"MY  UKVR,  DKAR  FATHER, — If  I  may  dare  io  believe 
that  you  are  so,  and  if  not  that,  my  best  of  friends — how 
shall  I  write  to  you,  and  what  shall  I  say,  since  all  your 
words  are  a  mystery?  Father  !  blessed  word.  Oh,  that  my 
noble  friend  were  indeed  my  father  !  Yet  tell  me,  tell  me, 
how  can  this  be?  Alas  !  I  feel  a  sad  presentiment  that  the 
bright  dream  is  all  an  illusion,  an  error.  1  never  before 
remember  to  have  heard  the  name  of  Phillip  Amory.  My 
sweet,  pure,  and  gentie  Emilv  has  taught  me  to  love  all 
the  world ;  and  hatred  and  contempt  are  foreign  to  her 
nature,  and.  1  trust,  to  my  own.  Moreover,  she  has  not  an 
enemy  in  the  wide  world,  never  had,  or  could  have.  One 
might  as  well  war  with  an  angel  of  heaven  as  with  a  creat- 
ure so  holv  and  lovelv  as  she. 

"Nor  bid  me  think  of  yourself  as  a  man  of  sin  aiid 
crime.  It  cannot  lie.  It  would  be  wronging  a  noble 
nature  to  believe  it,  and  1  sav  again  it  cannot  be.  (lladlv 
would  1  trust  my.M'lf  to  repose  on  the  bosom  of  such  a 
parent;  gladly  would  1  hail  the  sweet  duty  of  consoling  the 


298  TITR  LA 


sorrows  of  one  so  self-sacrificing.  so  kind,  so  generous; 
whose  life  has  been  s.o  freely  offered  for  rue,  and  for  others 
whoso  existence  was  dearer  to  rru;  than  niv  own.  \Vheri 
you  took  me  in  your  arms  and  called  me  your  child,  your 
darling  child,  I  fancied  that  the  excitement  of  that  dread- 
ful scene  had  for  the  moment  disturbed  your  mind  and 
brain  so  far  as  to  invest  me  with  a  false  identity  —  perhaps 
confound  my  image  with  that  of  some  loved  and  absent 
one.  I  now  believe  that  it  was  no  sudden  madness,  but 
rather  that  I  have  been  all  along  mistaken  for  another, 
whose  glad  office  it  may  perhaps  be  to  cheer  a  father's  sad- 
dened  life,  while  I  remain  unrecognized,  unsought  —  the 
fatherless,  motherless  one,  I  am  accustomed  to  consider 
myself.  If  you  have  lost  a  daughter,  Cod  grant  she  may 
be  restored  to  you,  to  love  you  as  I  would  do,  were  1  so 
blessed  as  to  be  that  daughter  !  And  1  —  consider  me  not  a 
stranger;  let  )iie  be  your  child  in  heart;  let  me  love,  prav, 
and  weep  for  you;  let  me  pour  out  my  *'oul  in  thankfulness 
for  the  kind  care  and  sympathy  yon  have  alreadv  given 
me.  And  yet,  though  I  disclaim  it  all,  and  dare  not,  \vs, 
dare  not,  dwell  for  a  moment  on  the  thought  that  von  are 
otherwise  than  deceived  in  believing  me  vour  child,  my 
heart  leaps  up  in  spite  of  me,  and  1  tremble  and  almost 
cease  to  breathe  as  there  Hashes  upon  me  the  possibility, 
the  blissful  (rod-given  hopes  !  Xo,  no!  I  will  not  think  of 
it,  lest  I.  could  not  hear  to  have  it  crushed!  Oh.  what  am 
I  writing?  I  know  not.  1  cannot  endure  the  suspense 
long;  write  quickly,  or  come  to  me,  my  father  —  for  1  will 
call  you  so  once,  though  perhaps  never  again. 


Mr.  Phillips  —  or  rather  Mr.  Amory,  for  we  shall  c,-ill 
him  by  his  true  name  —  had  neglected  to  mention  his  ad- 
dress. Gertrude  did  not  observe  this  circumstance  until 
she  was  preparing  to  direct  her  letter.  She  for  a  moment 
experienced  a  severe  pang  in  the  thought  that  her  com- 
munication would  never  reach  him.  But  she  was  reassured 
on  examining  the  post-mark,  which  was  evidently  New 
York,  to  which  she  addressed  her  missive:  and  then,  un- 
willing to  trust  it  to  other  hands,  tied  on  her  bonnet, 
caught  up  a  veil  with  which  to  conceal  her  agitated  face, 
deposited  the  letter  herself  in  the  village  post-oilier. 

Gertrude's  case  was   a   peculiarly  trying  one.     She  had 


THE  LAMPLTGirrFM.  299 


been  already,  fora  week  past,  struggling  in  suspense  which 
agitated  her  almost  beyond  endurance;  and  now  a  new 
cause  of  mvstery  had  arisen,  involving  an  almost,  equal 
amount  of  self-questioning  and  torture.  It  seemed  almost 
beyond  the  power  of  so  sensitive,  and  so  inexperienced  a 
girl  to  rally  such  self-command  as  would  enable  her  to 
rontroi  her  emotions,  disguise  them  from  observation,  and 
compel  herself  to  endure  alone  and  in  silence  this  cruel 
destiny,  lint  she  did  do  it,  and  bravely  too. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

TIES— NOT    OF    EARTH. 

IN  a  private  room  of  one  of  those  first-class  hotels  in 
which  Mew  York  city  abounds,  Phillip  Aniory  sat  alone. 
It  was  evening,  the  curtains  were  drawn,  the  gas-lamps 
burning  brightly  and  giving  a  cheerful  glow  to  the  room, 
the  comfortable  appearance  of  which  contrasted  strongly 
with  the  pale  countenance  and  desponding  attitude  of  its 
solitary  inmate,  who  leaned  upon  a  table  in  the  centre  of 
the  apartment.  He  had  thus  sat  for  nearly  an  hour  with- 
out once  moving  or  looking  up.  Suddenly  he  started  up, 
straightened  his  commanding  figure  to  its  full  height,  and 
slowly  paced  the  room.  A  slight  knock  at  the  door  ar- 
rested his  steps:  a  look  of  annoyance  overspread  his  coun- 
tenance; he  again  flung  himself  into  his  chair,  and,  in 
reply  to  the  servant's  announcing,  ''A  gentleman,  sir.'''  was 
preparing  to  say,  '•  1  cannot  be  interrupted" — but  it  was 
too  late;  tile  visitor  had  advanced  within  the  door,  which 
the  waiter  quietly  closed  and  repeated. 

The  new-comer- — a,  vouni:  man — stepped  quickly  and 
eagerly  forward,  but  cheeked  himself,  abashed  at  the  cold- 
ness of  the  reeeption  bv  his  host. 

"  Excuse  me.  Mr.  Phillips,"  said  William  Sullivan,  for  it 
was  he;  "1  fear  my  visit  is  an  intrusion." 

"J)o  not   sneak  of    it."  replied  Mr.  Amorv.      ''I  beg  you 

i  i  *,  O    •. 

to  be  seated;  "   politely  handing  a  chair. 

Willie  availed  himself  of  the  offered  seat  no  further  than 
to  lean  lightly  upon  it  with  one  hand,  while  he  still  re- 


300  T1IK  LAMPLIGHTER 

mained   standing,     "You    have   changed,   sir,"  continued 
,V>,  *'  since  I  last  sa\v  YOU." 

"'('hanged  !     Yes.  L  am,"  said  the  other,  absently. 

'•'  Your  health,  I  i'eai1,  is  not ' 

"  My  health  is  excellent,"  said  Mr.  Amory,  interruptini> 
his  remark.  •'  It  is  a  lomj;  time,  sir,  since  we  met.  I  have 
not  Yet  forgotten  the  debt  I  o\ve  you  for  your  timelv  inter-j 
i'erence  between  me  and  Ali,  that  Arab  traitor,  with  hid 
nidcallv  army  of  Bedouin  rogues.'' 

"'J)o  not  name  it,  sir."  said  Willie.  "Our  meeting  was 
fortunate;  but  the  hem-lit  was  as  mutual  as  the  danger  to 
which  we  were  alike  exposed.'' 

"1  cannot  think  so  You  seemed  to  have  a  most  excel- 
lent understanding  with  your  own  party  of  guides  and  at- 
tendants. Arabs  though  they  were." 

"True;  I  have  had  some  experience  in  Eastern  travel, 
and  know  how  to  manage  those  inflammable  spirits  of  the 
desert.  .But  at  the  time  1  joined  you,  1  was  myself  enter- 
ing the  neighbourhood  of  hostile  tribes,  and  might  soon 
have  found  our  partv  overawed  but  for  having  joined 
forces  wit  h  Yourself." 

"  You  set  but  a  modest  value  upon  your  conciliatory 
powers,  young  man.  To  you,  who  are  so  well  acquainted 
with  the  facts  in  the  case,  1  can  hardly  claim  the  merit  of 
frankne.-s  for  the  acknowledgment  that  it  was  only  my 
own  hot  temper  and  stubborn  will  which  exposed  us  both 
to  the  imminent  danger  which  you  were  fortunately  able 
to  avert.  ,\o.  no  !  I  must  once  more  express  my  gratitude 
for  your  invaluable  aid.'' 

"  You    are   making  my    visit,   sir."  said    Willie,  smiling. 
"the  ve.rv  reverse    nf   what   it  was   intended    to   be.      I  did 
n  >1     cume     here     this     evening    to     receive    but    to    relide'  ' 
ks." 

"  For  what,  sir  '"  "  asked  Mr.  Amorv,  abruptly,  almosl 
roMLrhl  v.  "  You  owe  me  not  hing.  " 

"  The  frieud.s  of  Isaliciia  Clinton,  sir.  owe  you  a  debt  of 
gra'itude  which  it  will  be  impossible  for  them  ever  to 
re)  la  V.'' 

"  You  are  mistaken,  Mr.  Sullivan:  I  have  done  nothing 
which  places  that  voun^  ladv's  friends  under  it  particle  of 
obli^fat  :on  to  ni'1. 

not.  save  her  li ;',    ';  " 

^r  from  my  intention." 


THE  LAMPLHUITKH.  301 

Willie  smiled.  "  It  could  have  been  no  accident,  I 
think,  which  led  you  to  risk  your  own  life  to  rescue  a  fel- 
low-passenger." 

"  It  was  no  accident  which  led  to  Miss  Clinton's  safety 
from  destruction.  1  am  convinced  of  that.  But  you 
must  not  thank  we  ;  it  is  due  to  another  than  myself  that 
she  does  not  now  sleep  in  death." 

"  May  I  ask  to  whom  you  refer  ?" 

"  I  refer  to  a  dear  and  noble  girl,  to  whom  I  swam  in 
'that  burning  wreck  to  save.  Jler  veil  had  been  agreed 
upon  as  a  singal  between  us.  That  veil,  carefully  thrown 
over  the  head  of  Miss  Clinton,  whom  I  found  clinging  to 
the  spot  assigned  to — to  her  whom  1  was  seeking,  deceived 
me,  and  I  bore  in  safety  to  the  shore  the  burden  which  I 
had  ignorantlv  sei/.cd  from  tho  gaping  waters,  leaving  my 
own  darling,  who  had  oJfered  her  life  as  a  sacrifice  to 

"  Oil,  not  to  die  !  "  exclaimed  Willie. 

'•  Mo;  to  be  saved  by  a  miracle.  Go  thank  her  for  Miss 
Clinton's  life." 

"1  thank  God,"  said  Willie,  with  fervour,  "that  the 
horrors  of  such  scenes  of  destruction  are  half  redeemed  by 
heroism  like  that." 

The  stern  countenance  of  Mr.  Amory  softened  as  he 
listened  to  the  young  man's  enthusiastic  outburst  of  ad- 
miration at  Gertrude's  noble  self-devotion. 

"  Who  is  she  ?     Where  is  she  ?  "  continued  Willie. 

''Ask  me  not  !  "  replied  Mr.  Amory,  with  a  gesture  of 
impatience;  "I  cannot  tell  you  if  I  would.  I  have  not 
seen  her  since  that  ill-fated  day." 

His  manner  seemed  to  intimate  an  unwillingness  to 
enter  into  further  explanation  regarding  Isabel's  rescue, 
and  Willie,  perceiving  it,  stood  for  a  moment  silent  and. 
irresolute.  Then  advancing  nearer,  he  said.  "Thougn 
you  so  utterly  disclaim,  Mr.  Phillips,  any  participation  in 
Miss  Clinton's  escape.  I  feel  that  my  errand  would  be  but 
imperfectly  fulfilled  if  1  should  fail  to  deliver  the  message 
which  I  bring  to  one  who  was  the  final  means  if  not  the 
original  cause  of  her  safety.  Mi1.  Clinton,  the  young  lady's 
father,  desired  me  to  tell  von  that,  in  saving  the  life  of 
his  only  surviving  child,  ihe  last  of  sewn,  all  of  \vhom  but 
herself  had  an  early  de;it!i,  voii  have  prolonged  his  life, 
and  rendered  him  grateful  to  that  degree  which  words  on 
his  part  a.re  powerless  to  e.xpress  ;  but  that,  as  long  as  bis 


302 

feeble  life  is  spared,  he  shall  never  cease  to  bless  your  name 
anu  j'l.ij  vC  neaven  for  its  choicest  gifts  upon  v>u  and 
those  who  dwell  next  your  heart." 

There  was  a  slight  moisture  in  the  penetrating  eye  of 
Mr.  Amorv,  but  a  courteous  smile  upon  Ins  lip,  as  he  said, 
"All  this  from  Mr.  Clinton!  Very  gentlemanly,  and 
equally  sincere,  I  doubt  not;  but  you  surely  do  not  mean 
to  thank  me  wholly  in  his  name,  my  young  friend.  Ha^e 
yon  nothing  to  say  for  your  own  sake  '?  " 

Willie  looked  surprised,  but  replied,  unhesitatingly, 
"  Certainly,  sir  :  as  one  of  a  large  circle  of  acquaintances 
ami  friends  whom  Miss  Clinton  honours  with  her  regard, 
my  admiration  and  gratitude  for  your  disinterested  exer- 
tions are  unbounded  ;  and  not  only  on  her  account,  but  on 
that  of  whom  YOU  nobly  rescued  from  a  most  terrible 
death." 

"Am  I  to  understand  that  you  speak  onlv  as  a  friend  of 
humanity,  and  that  you  felt  no  personal  interest  in  any  of 
my  fellow-passengers?  '' 

"I  was  unacquainted  with  nearly  all  of  them.  Miss 
Clinton  was  the  only  one  I  had  known  for  any  greater 
length  of  time  than  during  two  or  three  davs  of  Saratoga 
intercourse;  but  1  should  have  mourned  her  death,  since  I 
was  in  the  habit  of  meeting  her  familiarly  in  her  childhood, 
have  lately  been  continually  in  her  society,  and  am  aware 
that  her  father,  my  respected  partner,  an  old  and  invalu- 
able friend,  who  is  now  much  enfeebled  in  health,  could 
hardly  have  survived  so  severe  a  shock  as  the  loss  of  an 
onlv  child,  whom  he  idolises." 

"'  You   speak  very  coollv,  Mr.  Sullivan, 
that  the  prevailing  belief  gives  you  credit 
than  a  mere  friendly  interest  in    Miss  Cli 
lating  of  Willie's  eves,  as    he  fixed    them 
Mr.  Amorv — the    half-scrutinising  expression    of   his 
as  he  seated  himself  in    the  chair,  were    sulli.irm    evidenn 
of    the  effect  of    the  question    unexpectedly   put    tt 
"  Sir,"  said    he,  "'1   either    misunderstood  von,  or  the 
vailing  belief  is  a  m<  i; 
'•  Then    you    never 
ment." 

"  \>'ver,  I  as.-u  re  you.  I 
has  obtained  an  exten-;\e  ' 
friends  !  " 


T1IK  LAMPLIGHTER.  303 

"  Sufficiently  extensive  for  me,  a  mere  spectator  of  Sara- 
toga life,  to  hear  it  whispered  from  ear  to  ear,  as  a  fact 
worthy  of  credit.'' 

"  1  am  surprised  and  vexed  at  what  you  tell  me,"  said 
Willie.  •'  Nonsensical  and  false  as  such  a  rumour  is.  it 
will,  if  it  should  reach  Miss  Clinton,  he  a  source  of  annoy- 
ance to  her:  and  on  that  account,  I  regret  the  circum- 
stances which  have  probably  given  rise  to  it." 

"  J)o  you  refer  to  considerations  of  delicacy  on  the  lady's 
part,  o)1  have  you  the  modesty  to  believe  that  her  pride 
would  be  wounded  by  having  her  name  thus  coupled  with 
that  of  her  father's  junior  partner,  a  young  man  hitherto 
tmknown  to  fashionable  circles?  But,  excuse  me;  per- 
haps I  am  stepping  on  dangerous  ground." 

'•By  no  means,  sir;  you  wrong  me  if  you  believe  my 
pride  to  be  of  such  a  nature.  But  1  have  not  only  refer- 
ence to  both  the  motives  you  name,  but  to  many  others, 
when  I  assert  my  opinio-n  of  the  resentment  Miss  Clinton 
would  probably  cherish  if  your  remarks  should  reach  her 
ears." 

"'  Mr.  Sullivan,''  said  Mr.  Amory,  '''are  you  sure  you  are 
not  standing  in  your  own  light?  Are  you  aware  that  un- 
due modesty  with  false  notions  of  refinement  has  oft  pre- 
vented many  a  man's  good  fortune,  and  is  likely  to  inter- 
fere with  your  own  ?  " 

'•  How  so.  sir  ?  You  speak  in  riddles,  and  I  am  ignorant 
of  your  meaning." 

"  Handsome  young  fellows,  like  you.  can  often  command 
any  amount  of  property  for  the  asking;  but  many  such 
chances  rarely  occur  to  one  individual  ;  and  the  world  will 
laugh  at  you  if  you  waste  so  fair  an  opportunity  as  you 
now  have." 

"Opportunity  for  what?  You  surely  do  not  mean  to 
advise  me — 

"I  do.  though.  I  am  older  than  you  are,  and  I  know4 
something  of  the  world.  A  fortune  is  not  made  in  a  dav, 
nor  is  money  to  be  despised.  Mr.  Clinton's  life  is  almost 
worn  out  in  toiling  after  that  wealth  which  will  soon  he  the 
inheritance  of  his  daughter.  She  is  young,  beautiful,  and 
the  pride  of  that  high  circle  in  which  she  moves.  Both 
father  and  daughter  stiiih1  upon  you:  you  need  not  look 
disconcerted-  1  .-peak  as  between  friends,  and  von  kimw 
the  truth  of  that  which  strangers  have  observed,  and  which 


304  THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 

I  have  frequently  hoard  mentioned  as  beyond  doubt.  Why 
do  you  hesitate  !  " 

"Mr.  Phillips,"  suid  Willie,  with  embarrassment,  ""the 
comments  of  mere  casual  acquaintances,  such  as  most  of 
those  \vith  whom  Miss  Clinton  associated  in  Saratoga,  are 
not  to  be  depended  upon.  The  relations  in  which  1  stand 
towards  Mr.  Clinton  have  been  such  as  to  draw  me  into 
constant  intercourse  with  himself  and  his  daughter.  He 
is  almost  without  relatives,  has  scarcely  any  trustworthy 
friend  at  command,  and  therefore  appears  to  the  world 
more  favourably  disposed  towards  me  than  would  be  found 
to  be  the  case  should  I  aspire  to  his  daughter's  hand.  The 
lady,  too.  has  so  many  admirers,  that  it  would  be  vanity  in 
me  to  believe — 

-  Pooh,  pooh!  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Phillips.  "  tell  that.  Sulli- 
van, to  a  greater  novice,  a  more  unsophisticated  individual, 
than  I  am!  It  is  very  becoming  in  yon  to  say  so  :  but  a 
few  reminders  will  hardly  harm  a  youth  who  has  such  a 
low  opinion  of  his  own  merits.  Pray,  who  was  the  gentle- 
man for  whose  society  Miss  Clinton  was,  a  few  nights  since, 
so  ready  to  forego  the  music  of  Alboni,  the  crowded  hall, 
and  the  smiles  of  a  train  of  adorers  V'' 

Willie  said.  "1  remember!— That,  then,  was  one  of  the 
causes  of  suspicion.  1  was  then  a  messenger  merely,  to 
summon  Miss  Isabel  to  the  bedside,  of  her  father,  by  whom 
I  had  been  watching  for  hours,  and  who,  on  awakening 
from  a  lethargic  sleep,  which  alarmed  the  physician, 
eagerly  inquired  for  his  daughter,  that  1  did  not  hesitate 
to  interrupt,  the  pleasure  of  the  evening  and  call  her  to  the 
post  of  duty  in  the  cottage  occupied  by  Mr.  Clinton,  at  the 
extremity  of  the  grounds,  to  which  1  accompanied  her  by 
moonlight/' 

Mr.  Amory  laughed,  ea.-t  upon  Willie  that  look  of  be- 
nignity which  became  his  line  countenance,  and  exclaimed, 
"So  much  for  watering-place  Lross:p!  I  must  forbear 
speaking  of  any  further  evidences  of  a  tender  interest 
manifested  by  either  of  von.  But  believe,  dear  Sullivan, 
that  though  the  young  ladv's  heart  be  still,  like  her  for- 
tune, in  the  united  keeping  of  hersel  f  and  her  fat  her.  there 
is  nothing  easier  than  for  von  to  win  and  claim  them  both. 
You  possess  business  talent  indi.-pen.-able  to  the  elder 
paitv  ;  if,  with  your  handsome  face,  ligure,  and  accomplish- 


THE  I. Am- Li (,/fTER 

ments,  you  cannot  render  yourself  equally  so  to  the 
younger,  there  is  no  one  to  Maine  but  yourself." 

Willie  laughed.  "If  J  had  that  object  in  view,  I  know 
of  no  one  to  wlmni  I  would  so  soon  come  for  encourage- 
ment as  to  you.  sir  ;  but  the  flattering  prospect  you  hold 
out  is  quite  wasted  upon  me.'3 

Mr.  Amorv  said,  "  I  cannot  believe  you  will  be  so  foolish 
as  to  neglect  the  opportunity  of  taking  that  stand  in  life  to 
which  your  education  and  qualities  entitle  you.  Your 
father  was  a  respectable  clergyman  ;  you  profited  by  every 
advantage  in  your  youth,  and  have  done  yourself  such 
credit  in  India  as  would  enable  you,  with  plenty  of  capital 
at  command,  to  take  the  lead  in  a  few  years  among  mer- 
cantile men.  A  man  just  returned  from  a  long  residence 
abroad  is  thought  to  be  an  easy  prey  to  the  charms  of  the 
first  of  his  fair  countrywomen  into  whose  society  he  may 
be  thrown  :  and  it  can  scarcely  lie  wondered  at.  if  you  are 
subdued  bv  such  winning  attractions  as  are  rarely  to  be 
met  with  in  this  land  of  beautiful  women.  Nor  can  it  be 
possible  that  you  have  for  six  years  toiled  beneath  an  Ind- 
ian sun  without  learning  to  appreciate  the  looked-for  but 
happy  termination  of  your  toils,  whose  crowning  blessing 
will  be  the  possession  of  your  beautiful  bride." 

"  Mr.  Phillips,''  said  Willie,  speaking  with  decision  and 
energy,  which  proved  ho\v  heartfelt  were  the  words  he 
uttered,  "I  have  not  spent  many  of  the  best  years  of  mv 
life  toiling  beneath  a  burning  sun.  and  in  exile  from  all 
that  I  held  most  dear,  without  being  sustained  by  high 
hopes,  aims,  and  aspirations.  I>ut  you  misjudge  me  greatly 
if  you  believe  that  the  ambition  that  has  spurred  me  on 
can  find  its  gratification  in  those  rewards  which  you  have 
so  vividly  presented  to  mv  imagination.  No,  sir!  believe 
me,  I  aspire  to  something  higher  vet,  and  should  think  mv 
best  efforts  wasted  if  my  hopes  tended  not  to  a  still  more 
glorious  good.''' 

''And  to  what  quarter  do  you  look  for  the  fulfilment  of 
such  prospects  ?"  asked  Mr.  Amorv. 

"  Not  to  the  gay  circles  of  fashion."  replied  Willie,  "  nor 
yet  to  that  moneyed  aristocracy  whieh  awards  to  each  man 
his  position  in  life.  1  <|0  not  depreciate  an  honourable 
standing  in  (lie  eye.-;  of  my  fellow-men  :  1  am  not  blind  to 
the  advantages  of  wealth,  or  to  the  claims  of  grace  and 
beauty;  but  these  were  not  the  things  for  which  1  left  my 


3<>f> 

homo,  and  it,  is  not  to  claim  them  that  I  have  returned. 
Young  :is  I  am,  I  have  seen  enough  of  trial  to  believe  tliut 
the  only  blessings  worth  striving  for  are  something  more  en- 
during, more  satisfying,  than  precarious  wealth  or  fleeting 
smiles.'' 

"To  what,  then,  I  ask,  do  you  look  forward  ?" 

''To  a  lininr,  and  that  not  so  much  for  myself  as  for 
{mother,  with  whom  I  hope  to  share  it.  A  year  since  "- 
and  Willie's  lip  trembled,  his  voice  faltered  —  "there  we.ro 
others,  besides  that  dear  one  whose  image  now  tills,  mv 
heart,  whom  I  had  fondly  honed,  and  should  have  rejoiced 
to  see  reaping  the  fruits  of  my  exertions.  But  we  were 
not  permitted  to  moot  again;  and  now — but  pardon  me, 
sir;  I  would  not  trouble  you  with  mv  private  alTairs.''' 

"Go  on,'' said  Mr.  Amorv;  "1  deserve  some  confidence 
in  return  for  the  disinterested  advice  I  have  been  giving 
you.  Speak  to  me  as  to  an  old  friend:  I  am  much  inter- 
ested in  what  you  say." 

"It.  is  long  since  I  have  spoken  freely  of  myself,'*  paid 
AVillie,  "but  frankness  is  natural  to  me.  and,  since  you 
profess  a  desire,  to  learn  something  of  my  aim  in  life,  I 
know  of  no  motive  J  have  for  reserve  or  concealment.  l>ut 
my  position,  sir,  even  as  a  child,  was  ,-ingular;  and  excuse, 
me  if  I  brieflv  refer  to  it.  I  could  not  have  been  more 
than  twelve  or  fourteen  years  of  age  when  1  began  to  real- 
ise the  necessity  which  rested  upon  me.  My  widowed 
mother  and  her  aged  father  were  the  only  relatives  1  knew. 
One  was  feeble,  delicate,  and  unequal  to  active  exertion; 
the  other  was  old  and  poor,  being  wholly  dependent  upon 
a  small  salarv  for  officiating  as  sexton  of  a  neighbouring 
church.  Yet  in  spite  of  these  circumstances  they  main- 
tained Tin1  for  several  vears  in  comfort  and  decency,  and 
gave  me  an  excellent  education. 

"At  an  age  when  kites  and  marbles,  are  so  engrossing.  I 
had  an  earnest  desire  to  relieve  my  mother  and  grand- 
father of  a  part  of  their  care  and  labour;  and  1  obtained  a 
situation,  in  which  I  was  well  treated  and  well  paid,  and 
which  I  retained  until  the  death  of  mv  excellent,  master. 
Then,  for  a  time.  1  felt  bilterlv  the  want  of  i-m  plovmen; . 
and  heeame  despondent:  a  Mate  of  mind  which  \\as  fos- 
tered bv  constant  association  with  mv  desponding  Lrrand- 
fatiier,  who,  having  met  with  great  disappointment  in  life. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  307 

encouraged  me  not,  hut  was  ever  hinting  at  the  probability 
of  my  failing  in  every  scheme  for  advancement. 

"I  have  since  thought  his  doublings  answered  a  good 
purpose;  for  nothing  so  urged  me  on  to  efforts  as  the  de- 
sire to  prove  the  mistaken  nature  of  his  gloomy  predictions. 
and  few  things  have  given  me  more  satisfaction  than  the 
assurances  I  have  received  during  the  past  few  years  that 
he  came  at  last  to  a  full  conviction  that  my  prosperity  was 
established,  and  that  one  of  his  ill-fated  i'amilv  was  destined 
to  escape  the  trials  of  poverty. 

'•  My  mother  w;is  a  quiet,  gentle  woman,  small  in  person, 
with  great  simplicity,,  and  some  reserve  of  manner.  She 
loved  me  like  her  own  soul:  she  taught  me  everything  I 
know  of  gotniness:  there  is  no  sacrifice  I  would  not  have 
made  for  her  happiness.  I  would  have  died  to  save  her 
life:  but  we  shall  never  meet  again  in  this  world,  and  I — 1 
— am  learning  to  be  resigned. 

"For  these  two.  and  one  other,  whom  T  shall  speak  of 
presently,  I  was  ready  to  go  away,  and  strive,  and  suffer, 
and  be  patient.  The  opportunity  came  and  1  embraced  it. 
And  soon  one  great  object  of  my  ambition  was  won;  I  was 
able  to  earn  a  competency  for  myself  and  for  them.  And 
I  began  to  look  forward  to  a  dav  when  my  long  looked-for 
return  should  render  our  happiness  complete.  I  little 
thought  then  that  the  sad  tidings  of  my  grandfather's 
death  were  on  their  way.  and  the  news  of  my  mother's  slow 
hut  sure  decline  so  soon  to  follow.  But  they  are  both 
gone;  and  1  should  now  lie  so  solitary  as  almost  to  long  to 
follow  them  but  for  one  other,  whose  love  will  bind  me  to 
earth  so  long  as  she  is  spared/" 

•'And  she  ?'' exclaimed  Mr.  Aniory.  with  an  eagerness 
which  Willie,  engrossed  with  his  own  thoughts,  did  not  ob- 
serve. 

'•Is  a  young  girl."  continued  Willie,  "'  without  family, 
wealth,  or  beauty;  but  with  a  spirit  so  elevated  as  to  make 
her  great — a  heart  so  noble  ;:s  to  make  her  rich — a  soul  so 
pure  as  to 


'mboldened  \\illietoadd 


lamplighter,  lie  was  poorer  even  th;ui  \ve  were,  luit  then 
never  was  a  better  or  a  kinder-hearted  person  in  the  \\orld 
One  evening,  when  engaged  m  his  round  of  duty,  he  picked 


3<»8  Till-:  LAMri. 

up  and    brought  homo  a  littlo  ragged   child,  whom  a  cruel 
woman  had  thrust  into  the  street  to  perish  with  cold,  or  die 

a  more  lingering  death  in  (he  almshouse;  for  nothing  but 
such  devoted  care  as  she  received  from  my  mother  and 
Uncle  True  (so  we  always  called  our  old  friend)  could  have 
sa\ed  the  half-starved  creature  from  the  consequences  of 
hmg  exposure  ami  ill-treatment.  Through  their  un- 
wearied watching  and  ell'orts  she  was  spared,  to  repay  in 
lafter  years  more  than  all  the  love  bestowed  upon  her.  (She 
was  then  miserably  thin,  and  plain  in  her  appearance,  be- 
sides being  possessed  of  a  violent  temper,  which  she  had 
never  been  taught  to  restrain,  and  a  stubbornness  which 
resulted  from  her  having  long  lived  in  opposition  to  all  the 
world. 

•'.All  this,  however,  did  not  repel  Uncle  True,  under 
whose  loving  influence  new  virtues  and  capacities  soon 
began  to  manifest  themselves.  Jn  the  atmosphere  of  love 
in  which  she  now  lived  she  soon  liecatne  a  changed  being; 
and  when,  in  addition  to  the  example  and  precepts  taught 
her  at  home,  a  divine  light  was  shed  upon  her  life  by  one 
who,  herself  sitting  in  darkness,  casts  a  halo  forth  from  her 
own  spirit  to  illumine  those  of  all  who  are  blessed  with  her 
presence,  she  became,  what  she  has  ever  since  been,  a  being 
to  love  and  to  trust  for  a  life-time.  For  myself,  there  were? 
no  bounds  to  the  affect  ion  I  soon  came  to  cherish  for  the 
little  girl,  to  whom  I  was  .first  attracted  by  compassion 
mere]  v. 

"We  were  constantly  together;  we  had  no  thoughts,  no 
studies,  no  pleasures,  sorrow.-,  or  interests  that  were;  not 
shared.  I  was  her  teacher,  hor  protector,  the  partner  of  all 
her  childish  amusements;  and  she  was  bv  turns  an  advising 
and  sympathising  friend.  In  this  latter  character  she  was 
indispensable  to  me,  for  she  had  a,  hopeful  nature,  and  a 
buovancv  of  spirit  which  imparted  itself  to  me.  I  well 
remember  when  mv  kind  employer  died,  and  I  was  plunged 
in  grief  and  despair,  the  coiiiidence  and  energy  with  which 
she,  then  very  young,  inspired  me.  The  relation  between 
her  and  Uncle  True  was  beautiful.  Boy  as  I  was  1  could 
not  bur  view  with  admiration  tin-  old  man's  devoted  love 
for  the  adopted  darliii'j;  of  his  latter  vears  (his  birdie,  as  he 
always  railed  her),  and  the  grateful  ad'eeium  which  she 
bore  niiu  in  return. 

"During   the  llrs.t  i'cw  years  she  was  wholly  dependent 


THK  LAMIUJCIIITWR.  309 

upon  him,  and  seemed  only  a  fond,  affectionate  child:  but 
a  time  e;ime  at  last  when  the  case  was  reversed,  and  the  old 
man,  stricken  with  disease,  became  infirm  and  helpless. 
It  was  then  that  the  beauty  of  her  woman's  nature  shone 
forth  triumphant;  and,  oh!  how  gently,  child  as  she  was, 
she  guided  his  steps  as  he  descended  to  the  grave.  Often 
have  I  gone  to  his  room  at  midnight,  fearing  lest  he  might 
be  in  need  of  care  which  she  in  her  youth  and  inexperience 
would  be  unable  to  render;  and  never  shall  I  forget  the 
little  figure  seated  calmly  by  his  bedside,  at  an  hour  when 
many  of  her  years  would  be  shrinking  from  fears  conjured 
up  by  the  night  and  the  darkness,  with  a  lamp  dimly  burn- 
ing on  a  table  before  her,  and  she  herself,  with  his  hand  in 
hers,  sweetly  soothing  his  wakel'ulness  by  her  loving  words, 
or  with  her  eyes  bent  upon  her  little  Bible,  reading  to  him 
holy  lessons.  But  all  her  care  could  not  prolong  his  life; 
and  just  before  I  went  to  India  he  died,  blessing  God  for 
the  peace  imparted  to  him  through  his  gentle  nurse. 

"It  was  my  task  to  soothe  our  little  (ierty's  sorrows,  and 
do  what  I  could  to  comfort  her,  an  office  which,  before  I 
left  the  country,  I  was  rejoiced  to  transfer  to  the  willing 
hands  of  the  excellent  blind  lady  who  had  long  befriended 
both  her  and  Uncle  True.  Before  I  went  away,  I  solemnly 
committed  to  (Jerty,  who  had  in  one  instance  proved  her- 
self both  willing  and  able,  the  care  of  my  mother  and 
grandfather.  She  promised  to  be  faithful  to  her  trust;  and 
nobly  was  that  promise  kept.  In  spite  of  the  unkindness 
and  deep  displeasure  of  Mr.  Graham  (the  blind  lady's 
father),  upon  whose  bounty  she  had  for  a  long  time  been 
dependent,  she  devoted  iierself  heart  and  hand  to  the 
fulfilment  of  duties  which  in  her  eyes  were  sacred  and 
holy.  In  spite  of  suffering,  labour,  watching,  and  priva- 
tion, she  voluntarily  forsook  ease  and  pleasure,  and  spent 
day  and  night  in  the  patient  service  of  friends  whom  she 
loved  with  a  greater  love  than  a  daughter's,  for  it  was  that 
of  a  saint. 


310  THE  LAUPl.KiHTKR. 


CI1AITKR    XLIII. 

Till-:    i:\AMl.NATIONT. 

"  ( 'KHTAIN  I,Y,"  said  Mr  Ainorv,  '"I  can  well  understand 

that  a  iiKin  cf  ;i  LTenerous  ,-pirit  could  hardly  fail  to  cherish 
a  deep  and  lasting  <.>;rat  itude  fur  one  who  devoted  herself 
so  disinterestedly  to  a  toilsome  attendance  upon  the  last 
hours  of  hdoved  friends,  to  whose-  wants  he  himself  was 
prevented  from  ministering;  and  the  warmth  with  which 
von  eulogise  this  girl  docs  you  credit,  Sullivan.  She  must 
be  a  voting  person  of  great  excellence  to  have  fulfilled  so 
well  a  promise  of  such  remote  date  that  it  would  probably 
have  been  ignored  by  a  less  disinterested  friend. 

•"'  I  can  hardlv  believe  that  a  young  man  who  has  had  the 
ambition  to  mark  out.  and  the  energy  to  pursue,  such  a 
course  iiu  the  road  to  fortune  as  you  have  thus  far  success- 
fully followed,  can  have  made  a  serious  resolve  to  unite  lii in- 
self  and  his  pro-peris  with  an  insignificant  little  playmate, 
of  unacknowledged  birt  h .  without  beaut y  or  fortune,  unless 
there  is  already  an  en^a^ement ,  by  winch  he  is  bound,  or 
he  allows  himself  to  be  drawn  on  to  matrimony  by  the 
belief  that  the  highest  compliment  lie  CHU  pay  (namely,  the 
otTer  of  himse'.f)  will  alone  eaneel  the  immense  obligations 
under  which  he  labour-.  May  1  ask  if  yon  are  already 
shack  led  bv  pr<  miisi  •;  :  " 

"  I  am  not ."  replied  \\  illie. 

"  Then  listen  a  moment.  M  v  mot  ives  are  friendly  when 
I  beg  you  not  to  jiel  rashly  in  a  matter  which  will  afTect 
t  he  happiness,  of  your  own  life;  and  to  hear,  with  patience, 
too,  if  von  can.  the  few  words  which  I  have  to  say  on  the 
subject.  You  mu.-t  mistake,  my  voting  fiiend,  if  you 
b'-lieve  t  hat  t  he  happiness  of  ( ici't  v,  as  you  call  her — a  very 
ugly  name  can  be  insured,  anv  more  than  your  own,  by 
an  ill-assorted  union,  of  which  YOU  will  both  tind  cause  to 
repent.  ^  on  have  not  seen  IHT  for  six  \ears,  think  then 
of  all  that  has  happened  in  the  meantime,  and  beware  oi! 
iu'tinu  w  th  pi'ceipit;  tioji.  \.-\\  have  all  this  time  l>een 
living  abroad  iii  uct'vu  life,  growing  in  ktu^wledge  of  the 


THE  LAMPLTdHTEU.  311 

world,  and  its  various  phases  of  society.  In  India  you  wit- 
nessed a  mode  of  life  wholly  different  from  that  which 
prevails  with  us,  or  in  European  cities;  but  the  indepen- 
dence, both  of  character  and  manner,  which  you  there 
acquired  fitted  you  admirably  for  the  polished  sphere  of 
Parisian  life,  to  which  you  were  so  suddenly  introduced, 
and  in  which  you  met  \\ith  such  marked  success. 

"Notwithstanding  the  privilege  you  enjoy  of  being  pre- 
sented in  polite  circles  as  the  friend  of  a  man  so  well 
known  and  so  much  respected  as  Mr.  Clinton,  you  cannot 
have  been  insensible  to  the  marked  attentions  bestowed 
upon  you  bv  American  residents  abroad,  or  unaware  of  the 
advantage  you  enjoyed,  on  your  return  home,  from  having 
been  known  as  the  object  of  such  favour.  Though  1  did 
not  meet  you  in  Paris,  I  was  there  at  the  same  time,  and 
became  acquainted  with  facts  which  you  would  have  too 
much  modesty  to  acknowledge.  It  is  also  evident  that 
your  pride  must  have  been  flattered  by  the  favourable 
reception  you  have  met,  both  abroad  and  at  homo, especially 
from  the  young  and  beautiful  women  who  have  honoured 
you  with  their  smiles,  and  among  whom  she  whose  name 
the  crowd  already  associates  with  your  own  stands  pre- 
eminent. 

"When  I  think  of  all  this,  and  of  those  pecuniary  hopes 
you  may  indulge,  and  imagine  you  Hinging  all  these  aside 
to  chivalrously  throw  yourself  at  the  feet  of  your  mother's 
little  nurse,  I  find  it  impossible  to  keep  silent  and  avoid 
reminding  you  of  the  disappointment  that  must  ensue  on 
finding  yourself  at  once  and  forever  shutout  from  parti- 
cipation in  pleasures  which  have  been  within  your  reach 
and  voluntarily  discarded.  You  must,  remember  that  much 
of  the  consideration  which  is  paid  to  a  young  bachelor  of 
growing  prospects  ceases  to  lie  awarded  to  him  after  mar- 
riage, and  is  never  extended  to  his  bride,  unless  she  be 
chosen  from  the  select  circles  to  which  he  aspires.  This 
im portioned  orphan  with  whom  you  propose  to  share  your 
fate — this  little  patient  school-mistress — 

"I  did  not  tell  vou  she  had  ever  been  a  teacher!''  ex- 
claimed Willie,  stopping  short  in  his  walk  up  and  down  the 
room — •'•' J  did  not  tel!  you  anything  of  the  sort!  How  did 
vou  know  it  ?" 

Mr.  Amory,  who  had  thus  betraved  more  knowledge  than 
he  hud  been  supposed  to  possess,  hesitated  a  moment,  but 


312  TJIF,   *\\  WWKTZR. 

quickly  recovering  himself  >M .sweivu,  with  apparent  frank- 
ness, "To  tc]]  the  truth.  Sullivan,  1  have  seen  tbo  girl  zu 
coin  pan  v  with  an  old  doctor." 

"  Dr.  Jeremy  ?"  asked  \Villie,  quickly. 

"  The   same/' 

''When  did  you  see  her?     How  did  it  happen?" 

"I  happened  to  see  the  old  gentleman  in  the  course  o; 
my  travels,  and  this  (Jertrude  Flint  was  with  him.  1  It- 
told  me  a  few  I'aets  concerning  her;  nothing  to  her  disad- 
vantage, however;  in  warning  you  against  a  misalliance,  I 
speak  only  in  general  terms." 

Willie  looked  at  Mr.  Amory  wondering,  and  was  anxious 
to  Irani  further  particulars.  Mr.  Amory  went  on  without 
giving  him  a  chance  to  speak. 

"  This  (ierty,  Sullivan,  will  he  a  dead  weight  upon  your 
hands — a  constant  drawback  to  all  your  efforts  to  attain 
fashionable  society,  in  which  she  cannot  be  lifted  to  shine. 
You  vourself  pronounce  her  to  be  without  wealth  or  beauty ; 
of  her  family  you  know  nothing,  and  have  certainly  little 
reason  to  expect  that,  if  discovered,  it  would  do  her  any 
credit.  1  believe,  then,  that  I  only  speak  from  the  dictates 
of  common  sense  when  I  bid  you  beware  how  you  make,  in 
the  disposal  of  your.-elf,  such  an  unequal  bargain." 

"1  am  willing  to  believe,  sir,"  said  Willie,  ''that  the 
arguments  vou  have  adduced  upon  a  question  most  im- 
portant to  m  \-  we.  fa  re  are  based  upon  calm  reasoning  and 
a  d  ^interested  desire  to  promote  mv  prosperity.  I  confess 
yon  are  the  last  man.  judging  from  our  short  acquaintance, 
from  whom  I  should  have  expected  such  advice,  for  I  had 
bel  e\-ed  you  so  indifferent  to  the  applause  of  the  world  that 
thev  woidd  weigh  but  little  with  you  in  forming  estimates 
for  til-'  L.ruidanc(3  of  others.  Still,  t  hough  your  suggest  iom 
have  failed  to  change  mv  sentiments  or  intentions,  1  thanl: 
yon  fur  the  sincerity  and  earnestness  with  which  vou  have 
1  to  mould  my  judgment  bv  voiir  own,  and  will  repiv 
to  voiir  arguments  with  such  frankness  as  will.  1  think, 
persuade  vou  that,  so  far  from  following  the  impulses  of  a 
•  thu-iasm,  to  pinnae  with  haste  into  a  course  of 
reafter  to  be  iie>. lured.  ]  ;i!n  actuated  bv  feelings 
i  reason  approves,  ami  which  have  already  stood  the 

'    '    •  1  ieriel.ce. 

"  ^  •  "  speak  truly  when  vou  im  pute  to  me  a  natural  taste 
,  soc.ety;   a  taste  which  poverty,  and  the  retirement 


T1IK  LAMPLIGHTER.  313 

in  which  my  boyhood  was  passed,  gave  me  little  opportunity 
to  manifest,  but  \vhich  had  some  influence  in  determining 
my  aims  and  ambition  in  life.  The  tine  houses,  equipages, 
and  clothes  of  the  rich  had  less  charm  for  my  fancy  than 
the  ease,  refinement,  and  elegance  of  manner  which  dis- 
tinguished some  few  of  their  owners  who  came  under  my 
observation;  and,  much  as  I  desired  the  attainment  of 
wealth  for  the  sake  of  intrinsic  advantages,  and  the  means 
it  would  afford  of  contributing  to  the  happiness  of  others, 
it  would  have  seemed  to  me  divested  of  its  value  should  it 
fail  to  secure  to  its  possessor  a  free  admittance  to  the  polite 
and  polished  circle  upon  which  1  looked  with  admiring 
eyes. 

"  I  needed  not,  therefore,  the  social  deprivations  I  ex- 
perienced in  India  to  prepare  me  to  enter  with  eager  zest 
into  the  excitement  and  pleasures  of  Parisian  life,  to  which, 
through  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Clinton,  I  obtained, as  it  seems 
you  are  aware,  a  free  and  immediate  introduction. 

"It  is  true  I  was  summoned  thither  at  a  time  when  my 
spirits  had  been  for  months  struggling  with  depression, 
caused  by  sad  news  from  home,  and  had  not,  therefore,  the 
least  disposition  to  avail  myself  of  Mr.  Clinton's  politeness; 
but  the  feebleness  of  his  health,  and  his  inability  to  enjoy 
the  gaieties  of  the  place,  compelled  me  to  offer  myself  as  an 
escort  to  his  daughter,  who,  fond  of  society,  accepted  my 
services,  thus  drawing  me  into  the  very  whirl  and  vortex  of 
fashionable  life,  in  which  I  soon  found  much  to  flatter,  be- 
wilder, and  intoxicate.  I  could  not  be  insensible  to  the 
privileges  so  unexpectedly  accorded  to  me,  nor  could  my 
vanity  be  wholly  proof  against,  the  assaults  made  upon  it. 
Nor  was  my  manliness  of  character  alone  at  stake.  But 
the  soundness  of  principle  and  simplicity  of  habit  im- 
planted in  ])H.'  from  childhood,  and  hitherto  preserved  in- 
tact,  soon  found  themselves  at  stake.  I  had  withstood 
every  kind  of  gross  temptation,  but  my  new  associates  now 
presented  it  to  me  in  that  subtle  form  which  often  proves 
ii  snare.  The  wine-cup  could  never  have  enticed  me  to  the 
disgusting  scenes  of  drunken  revelry;  but  held  in  the 
hands  of  the  polished  gentlemen,  who  had.  but  a  moment 
before,  been  the  recipients  of  popular  favour  and  women's 
smiles,  it  sparkled  with  a  richer  lu-tre,  and  its  bitter  dretrs 
were  forgotten.  The  professed  gamester  would  vainly 
have  sought  UK;  for  an  accomplice;  but  I  was  not  equally 


?,H  TEE  LAMPLIGHTER 

on  my  guard  against  the  danger  which  awaited  me  from 
other  unexpected  quarters;  for  how  could  I  believe  that 
my  friends,  Mr.  Clinton's  friends,  the  ornaments  of  the 
sphere  in  which  they  moved,  would  unfairly  win  mv 
money,  and  lead  me  to  ruin?  I  wonder  as  I  look  back  upon 
my  residence,  in  Paris  that  I  did  not  fall  a  victim  to  one  of 
the  snares  that  were  on  every  side  spread  for  mv  destruc- 
tion, and  into  which  my  social  disposition  and  unsophisti- 
cated nature  rendered  me  prone  to  fall.  Nothing  but  the 
recollection  of  my  pure-minded  and  watchful  mother, 
whose  recent  death  had  recalled  to  my  mind  her  warning 
counsels — deemed  by  me,  at  the  time,  unnecessary;  but 
now,  springing  up  and  arming  themselves  with  a  solemn 
meaning — nothing  but  the  consciousness  of  her  gentle  spirit, 
ever  hovering  around  my  path,  saddened  by  my  conilicts, 
rejoicing  in  my  triumphs,  could  ever  have  given  me  courage 
and  perseverance  to  resist,  and  finally  escape,  the  pitfalls 
into  which  my  unwary  steps  would  have  plunged  me.  Had 
I  approached  the  outskirts  of  fashionable  life,  and  been 
compelled  to  linger  with  longing  eyes  at  the  threshold,  I 
might  even  now  be  loitering  there,  a  deceived  spectator 
of  joys  which  it  was  not  permitted  to  me  to  enter  and 
share;  or,  having  gained  a  partial  entrance,  be  eagerly  em- 
ployed in  pushing  my  way  onward. 

"  But  admitted  at  once  into  the  arcana  of  a  sphere  I  was 
eager  to  penetrate,  my  eyes  were  soon  opened  to  the  vain 
and  worthless  nature  of  the  bauble  Fashion.  Not  that  I 
did  not  meet  within  its  courts  the  wit,  talent,  and  refine- 
ment which  I  had  hoped  to  find  there,  or  that  these  were 
invariably  accompanied  by  less  attractive  qualities.  No;  I 
truly  believe  there  is  no  class  which  cannot  boa>t  of  its 
heroes  and  heroines,  and  that  there  are,  within  the  walks 
of  fashionable  life,  men  and  women  who  would  grace  a 
wilderness.  ?sor  do  I  despise  forms  and  ceremonies  which 
are  becoming  in  themselves,  and  conducive  to  elegance  and 
good  breeding.  As  long  as  OIK;  class  is  distinguished  by 
education  and  refined  manners,  and  another  is  marked  by 
ignorance  and  vulgarity,  there  must  be  a  dividing  line 
between  the  two,  which  neither  perhaps  would  desire  to 
overstep." 

'•'You  are  young,"  said  Mr.  Amorv,  "  to  be  such  a  phi- 
loaouhe1'  .Many/  u  man  has,  turned  away  with  disgust  froiu 


THE  LAVPLTGIITER.  315 

an  aristocracy  into  which  lie  could  himself  gain  no  admit- 
tance; but  few  renounce  it  voluntarily." 

"  Few,  perhaps,"  replied  Willie,  "few  >/t»<ttr/  men  have 
had  to  penetrate  its  secrets.  1  may  say  without  treachery, 
since  I  speak  in  general  terms  only,  that  I  have  seen  nioro 
ignorance.,  .lore  ill-breeding,  meanness,  and  immorality  in 
the  so-call(.:j  aristocracy  of  our  country  than  I  should  have 
believed  it  possible  would  be  tolerated  there.  I  have  known 
instances  in  which  the  most  accomplished  gentleman,  or  the 
most  beautiful  lady,  of  a  gay  circle  has  given  evidence  of 
want  of  information  on  the  most  common  topics.  I  have 
seen  elegant  evening  assemblies  disgraced  by  the  greatest 
rudeness  and  incivility.  I  have  seen  the  lavish  expenditure 
of  to-day  atoned  for  by  a  despicable  parsimony  on  the  mor- 
row; and  I  have  seen  a  want  of  principle  exhibited  by  both 
sexes,  which  proves  that  a  high  position  is  no  security 
against  such  contamination  of  the  soul  as  unfits  it  for  an 
exalted  place  hereafter." 

"I  have  witnessed  no  less  myself,"  said  Mr.  Amory; 
"but  my  experiences  have  not  been  like  those  of  other 
men,  and  my  sight  has  been  sharpened  by  circumstances. 
I  am  still  astonished  that  you  should  have  been  awake  to 
these  facts." 

'•'I  was  not  at  first,"  answered  Willie.  "It  was  only 
gradually  that  I  recovered  from  the  blinding  effect  which 
the  glitter  and  show  of  Fashion  imposed  upon  my  percep- 
tions. My  suspicions  of  its  falsehood  and  vanities  were 
based  upon  instances  of  selfishness,  folly,  and  cold-hearted- 
ness  which  came  to  my  knowledge.  I  could  relate  thou- 
sands of  mean  deceits,  contemptible  rivalries,  and  neglect 
of  sacred  duties  which  came  under  my  immediate  observa- 
tion. 

"Especially  was  I  astonished  at  the  effect  of  an  uninter- 
rupted  pursuit  of  pleasure  upon  the  sensibilities,  the 
tempers,  and  the  domestic  affections  of  women.  Though 
bearing  within  my  heart  an  image  of  female  goodness  and 
purity,  this  sweet  remembrance  might  possibly  have  been 
driven  from  its  throne  and  supplanted  by  one  of  the  lovely 
faces  which  at  first  bewildered  me  bv  their  beauty,  bad 
thes«  last  been  the  index  to  souls  of  equal  perfection. 
There  may  be  noble  and  excellent  women  moving  in  the 
highest  walks  of  life  whose  beauty  and  grace  are  less  ad- 
mirable than  their  own  high  natures;  but  among  those  with 


file  T1JR  LAMM.TGUTKR 

whom  I  became  familiarly  acquainted  there  was  not  one 
wh.)  could  in  the  least,  compare  with  her  who  was  eontin« 
uully  present  to  my  memory,  who  is  still,  ami  ever  must  be, 
a  model  to  her  srx. 

'"  Gertrude  Flint  was  the  standard  by  which  each  in  my 
mind  was  measured.  How  could  1  help  contrasting  the 
follv,  the  worldliness.  and  the  cold-hearted  ness  around  me 
with  the  cultivated  mind,  the  self-sacrificing  and  affec- 
tionate disposition  of  one  who  possesses  every  quality  that 
can  adorn  life?  You  failed  to  convince  me  that  Gertrude 
can  in  any  way  be  a  drawback  to  the  man  who  shall  be  so 
fortunate  as  to  call  her  his.  For  my  own  part,  I  desire  no 
better,  no  more  truly  aristocratic  position  in  life  than  that 
to  which  she  is  so  well  entitled,  and  to  which  she  would  he 
one  of  the  brightest  ornaments — the  aristocracy  of  true  re- 
finement, knowledge,  grace,  and  beauty.  You  talk  to  me 
of  wealth,  (iertrude  has  no  money  in  her  purse,  but 
her  soul  is  the  pure  gold,  tried  in  the  furnace  of  sorrow 
and  affliction,  and  thence  come  forth  bright  and  unal- 
loyed. Von  speak  of  family  and  an  honourable  birth. 
She  has  no  family,  and  her  birth  is  shrouded  in  mystery; 
but  the  blood  that  courses  in  her  veins  would  never  dis- 
grace the  race  from  which  she  sprung,  and  every  throb 
of  her  unsellish  heart  allies  her  to  all  that,  is  noble. 

"Von  are  eloquent  upon  the  subject  of  beauty.  AVhen 
I  parted  from  (Jertrude,  she  was,  in  all  but  character,  a 
mere  child,  being  only  thirteen  years  of  age.  Though 
much  altered  and  improved  since  the  time  when  she  first 
came  among  us,  I  scarcely  think  she  could  have  been  said 
to  possess  much  of  what,  the  world  calls  beauty.  It  was  a 
matter  of  which  I  seldom  thought,  or  cared:  and  had  I 
been  less  indifferent  on  the  subject,  she  was  so  dear  to  me 
that  I  should  have  been  unable  10  form  an  impartial  judg- 
ment of  her  claims  in  this  respect. 

"  1  well  remember,  however,  the  indignation  I  once  felt 
at  !ieariic_r  a  fellow-clerk,  who  had  met  her  in  one  of  our 
walks,  sneeringly  contrast  her  personal  appearance;  with 
that  of  our  emplover's  handsome  daughter,  Miss  Clinton  ; 
and  the  proportionate  rapture  with  which  1  listened  to  tho 
excellent  teaeher.  Miss  i'>ro\vn,  when,  bein^  present  at  a 
school  examination.  I  overheard  her  comment  ing  to  a  lady 
upon  ( I e-t rude's  wonderful  promise  in  person  as  well  as  in 
mind  \V  he  the;  the  lir.-L  purl  of  this  promise  lias  been 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  317 

fulfilled  I  have  no  moans  of  judging;  hut  as  I  recall  her 
dignified  and  graceful  lit  tit-  figure,  her  large,  intelligent, 
sparkling  eyes,  the  glow  of  feeling  that  lit  up  her  counte- 
nance, and  the  peaceful,  almost  majestic  expression  which 
purity  of  soul  imparted  to  her  yet  childish  features,  she 
stands  forth  to  my  remembrance  the  embodiment  of  all 
that  T  hold  most  dear. 

''Six  years  mav  have  outwardly  changed  her  much;  but 
they  cannot  have  robbed  her  of  what  I  prize  the  most. 
She  has  charms  over  which  time  can  have  no  power,  a  grace 
that  is  a  gift  of  Heaven,  a  beauty  that  is  eternal.  Could  I 
ask  for  more?  Do  not  believe,  then,  that  my  fidelity  to 
my  early  playmate  is  an  emotion  of  gratitude  merely.  Jt 
is  true  I  owe  her  much — far  more  than  J  can  ever  repav; 
but  the1  honest  warmth  of  rny  affection  for  the  noble  girl 
springs  from  the  truest  love  of  a  purity  of  character  and 
singleness  of  heart  which  I  had  never  seen  equalled. 

"  What  is  there  in  the  foolish  walks  of  Fashion,  the 
glitter  of  wealth,  the  homage  of  an  idle  crowd,  that 
could  so  elevate  my  spirit  and  inspire  mv  exertions  as  the 
thought  of  a  peaceful,  happy  home,  blessed  by  a,  presiding 
spirit  so  formed  for  confidence,  love,  and  a  communion  that 
time  can  never  dissolve  and  eternity  will  but  render  more 
secure  and  unbroken  ?" 

"And   she  whom  you   love   so  well — are  you   sure — 
asked  Mr.    Phillips,   speaking   with  a    visible    effort,   and 
faltering  ere  he  had  completed  his  sentence. 

"  Xo,"  answered  Willie,  anticipating  the  question.  '"  I 
know  what  you  would  ask.  I  am  )i»t  sure.  I  have  no 
reason  to  indulge  the  hopes  I  have  been  dwelling  upon  so 
fondly;  but  I  do  not  regret  having  spoken  with  such  can- 
dour; for,  should  sin1  grieve  my  heart,  by  her  coldness.  I 
should  still  be  proud  to  have  loved  her.  Until  this  time, 
since  I  gained  my  native  land,  I  have  been  shackled  with 
duties  which,  sac  rod  as  they  were,  have  chafed  a  spirit  long- 
ing for  freedom  to  follow  itsown  impulses.  In  this  visit  to 
you,  sir,  I  have  fulfilled  the  last  obligation  imposed  upon 
me  by  my  excellent  frii'iid.  and  to-morrow  I  shall  be  at 
liberty  to  go  where  my  duty  alone  prevented  me  from  at 
once  hastening." 

lleolTered  his  hand  tu  Mr.  Amorv,  who  grasped  il  with 
a  cordiality  very  ditteivnt  from  the  feeble  greeting  he  had 
given  him  on  his  entrance.  '•  Good-bye,"  said  lie.  "  You 


.",  IS  T1IK  LAMJ'l.KVITER. 

carry  with  you  my  '><'st  wi-hes.  fur  a  success  winch  you 
seem  to  have  so  much  at  heart.  ;  but  some  day  or  other  I 
feel  sure  you  will  be  reminded  of  all  I  have  said  to  you  this 
evening." 

•'•Strange  man!"  thought  Willie,  as  lie  walked  towards 
his  hotel.  "How  warmly  lie  shook  my  hand  at  parting! 
and  liow  affectionately  he  hade  me  farewell,  notwithstand- 
ing the  cold  reception  he  gave  me.  and  the  pertinacity  witfc 
which  I  rejected  his  opinions  and  repelled  his  advice!" 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

THE   LONG  LOOKI-:n-FOK    KETURNTHD. 

"Miss  nKKTRrmv"  said  M'rs.  Prime,  opening  the  par- 
lour-door,  putting  her  head  cautiously  in,  looking  round, 
and  then  advancing  with  a  stealthy  pan — '•  mvl  how  husv 
you  are!  Lor's.  sakes  alive,  if  YOU  air't  rippin'  up  them 
great  curtains  of  Mrs.  Graham's  t''«r  the  wash!  I  wouldn't 
be  botherin'  with  'em.  Miss  (lertnide;  she  won't  be  here 
this  fortnight,  and  Mrs.  Kliis  will  have  time  enough." 

"Oh,  I  have  nothing  else  to  do,  Mrs.  Prime;  it's  no 
trouble."  Then,  looking  up  pleasantlv  at  the  old  cook,  she 
added,  "  It  seems  verv  cosv  for  us  all  to  be  at  home — doesn't 
it?" 

"It  seems  heautiful!"  answered  Mrs.  Prime;  "and  I 
Can't  help  thinking  how  nice  it  would  be  if  we  could  all 
live  on  ji-t  as  we  are  now.  without  no  mor--  intrusions." 

(Icrtrude  smiled  and  said,  "  K\''i-y:luig  looks  as  it 
ti-ed  to  in  n!d  time-,  when  I  lir-t  came  lure.  J  wa.-  qu.te  ;; 
.•II ild  the;.,"  eon t i niied  she,  wit h  a  sigh. 

"(Irai'ious  me!  What  are  \-(ui  now?"  said  Mrs.  Prime. 
:>  For  mercy's  sake.  Mi--  ( iei  t  rude,  don't  von  liegin  to  t  hink 
about  LH'owin' old.  Tlierc's  nothin'  like  feelin'  young  to 

keep    Vol|llLr.       Thei'c*H     Mi-      Pa  I  t  V    I'aec,  now '' 

I   ha\e  bei-  i  tm-ai  i1       !o  r    lie!',"  exclaimed  Her- 

Inide;   -'   ,-    -hi-   ;di\e   a!   d     .'.'!!     \>'\    :    " 

lie!  "    I'cpl  ;cd    M  .  -.     I  ';  !  II .  ••  :     "    I  ."!  '.     -lie   Won't     IK-VcP   d  ie  ' 
'  >'   ;    A  oiucn   like    her.  thai     Kei  t  hrm-el  VeS    Volt  tig   pa!  s,  a  I  lefS 

li\e   forever;   bnt    the  baker".-  in,\   that    fetched    I  he   Jo;ive3 


TTTR  LAMPLIGHTER.  310 

this  mornin'  brought  an  arrant  from  her,  and  she  wants  to 
BOG  you  the  first  chance;  but  I  wouldn't  hurry  either  about 
goin'  there  or  anywhere,  Miss  Gertrude,  till  I  got  rested; 
for  vou  an'fc  well,  you  look  so  kind  o'  tired  out." 

"  l)id  she  wish  to  see  me  ?"  asked  Gertrude.  "  Poor  old 
tiling!  I'll  go  and  see  her  this  very  afternoon;  and  you 
needn't  feel  anxious  about  me,  Mrs.  Prime — I  am  quite 
well." 

Gertrude  went.  She  found  Miss  Patty  nearly  benf 
double  with  rheumatism,  dressed  with  less  than  her  usual 
care,  and  crouching  over  a  miserable  fire.  She  was  in  tol- 
erable spirits,  and  haded  Gertrude's  entrance  by  a  cordial 
greeting.  Innumerable  were  the  questions  she  put  to  Cier- 
trude  regarding  her  own  personal  experiences  during  the 
past  year. 

"So  you  have  not  yet  chosen  a  companion,"  said  she, 
after  Gertrude  had  responded  to  all  her  queries.  "  That  is 
a  circumstance  to  be  regretted.  "  Xot,"  continued  she-, 
with  a  litilo  smirk,  "  that  it  is  ever  too  late  in  life  for  one 
to  meditate  the  conjugal  tie,  which  is  often  assumed  with 
advantage  by  persons  of  fifty  or  more;  and  certainly  you, 
who  are  still  in  the  bloom  of  your  days,  need  not  despair 
of  a  youthful  s\vain.  Existence  is  twofold  when  it  is  shared 
with  a  congenial  partner;  ;uid  I  had  hoped  that  before  now, 
Miss  Gertrude,  both  you  and  myself  would  have  formed 
such  an  alliance;  for  the  protection  of  the  matrimonial 
union  is  one  of  its  greatest  advantages." 

""I  hope  you  have  not  suffered  from  the  want  of  it»" 
eaid  Gertrude. 

"  I  have,  Miss  Gertrude,  suffered  incalculably.  But  tha 
keenest  pangs  have  been  the  sensibilities;  yes,  the  sensi- 
bil'.ties — the  finest  part  of  our  nature,  and  that  which  will 
least  bear  wounding." 

"  1  am  sorry  to  hear  that  you  have  been  thus  grieved," 
said.  Gertrude.  •'  I  should  have  supposed  that,  living  alone, 
you  might  hav<?  been  spared  this  trial." 

"  Oh,  Miss  Gertrude!  "  oxchiiine'd  the  old  lady,  lifting 
up  both  hands,  and  speaking  in  a  pitiable  tone— "  Oh,  that 
1  had  the  wings  "'  a  dove,  wherewith  tu  llv  awav  from  my 
kindred!  L  fondly  thought,  lo  have  distanced  them,  but 
«!  linn:.:'  the  past,  year  they  have  diseovered  my  retreat,  anil 
i  cannot  elude  then-  vigilance.  Hanilv  ean  1  recover  from 
Uw  sliouk  of  ouo  visitation — made  i'cu  the  sole  purpose1  of 


TllK  LAMPLWUTER 

taking  an  inventory  of  my  possessions  and  measuring  the 
length  of  my  days— before  tlw  vultures  aro  again  seen 
hovering  round  my  dwelling,  hut,"  exclaimed  she,  raising 
her  voice  and  chuckling  as  she  spoke,  ''they  shall  fall  intc 
their  own  snare;  for  1  will  dupe  every  one  of  them  yetl" 

"  L  was  not  aware  that  you  had  any  relations,"  said  Ger- 
trude; "and  it  seems  they  are  such  only  in  name." 

"  Xame!"  said  Miss  Pace,  emphatically.  "I  am  glad  at 
the  thought  that  they  are  not  honoured  with  a  cognomen 
which  not  one  of  them  is  worthy  to  bear.  Xo,  they  pass 
by  a  different  name — a  name  as  plebeian  as  their  own  course 
souls.  Three  of  them  stand  to  each  other  in  a  fraternal 
relation,  yet  they  are  alike  hateful  to  me.  One,  a  eon- 
temptible  coxcomb,  comes  here  to  overawe  me  with  h;a 
presence,  which  he  conceives  to  be  imposing;  calls  me  aunt 
— aunt;  thus  testifying  bv  his  speech  to  a  consanguinity 
which  he  blindly  fancies  makes  him  nearer  akin  to  my 
property  1"  The  old  lady  almost  shrieked  the  last  word. 
"  And  ihe  other  two  are  beggars!  always  were  — always  will 
be;  let  'em  be  -I'm  glad  of 'it!  " 

"  You  hear  me.  Miss  Gertrude;  you  are  a  young  lady  ol 
quick  comprehension,  and  I  will  avail  myself  of  your  con- 
tiguity, which,  although  you  deny  the  charge,  may  shortly 
be  interrupted  by  some  eager  lover,  to  request  at  your 
hands  a  favour,  such  as  I  little  thought  once  1  should  ever 
feel  compelled  to  seek.  I  sent  for  you  to  write  (Mies 
Patty  whispered)  the  last  will  and  testament  of  .Miss  Patty 
Pace." 

The  poor  woman's  trembling  voice  evinced  a  deep  com- 
passion for  herself,  which  Gertrude  could  not  help  sharing  5 
and  she  expressed  a  willinguess  to  comply  with  her  wishes 
us  far  as  w;is  in  her  power,  at  the  same  time  declaring  her 
utter  ignorance  of  all  the  forms  of  law. 

To  ( !er! .  ud"'s.  astonishment.  Miss,  Putty  announced  a 
perfect  acquaintance  wit  h  all  the  legal  knowledge  which 
the  cu-e  demanded  ;  and  in  so  complete  a  manner  did  she 
dictate  tip1  words  of  the  important  instrument,  that,  being 
afterwards  properly  witnessed,  signed,  and  sealed,  it,  was 
fi'iind  in  a  f>jw  months  -  at  \\hich  time  Miss  Patty  died  — 
free  ''"oni  imperfection  and  Haw,  and  proved  u  sat  isfuctory 
,"i,  f'  if  the  d  .spus'a  i  'if  i  In-  inheritun  v. 

1;  muv  be  as  well  to  stale  here,  howe\er,  that  he  who 
^vac  pronounced  -olc  hur  to  thy  valuable  property  ncvol 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  321 

availed  himself  of  the  bequest,  otherwise  than  to  make  a 
careful  bestowal  of  it  among  her  relatives.     The  sole  in- 
heritor of  her  estate  was  William  Sullivan,  the  knight  of 
the  rosy  countenance,  who  with  chivalrous  spirit  captivated 
Miss  Patty's  virgin  heart,  and  gained   her  lasting  favout 
But  that  chivalrous  spirit  accepted  not  a  reward  so  dispro 
portioned   to  the  slight  service  he   had   rendered  the  old 
lady. 

Gertrude  found  it  no  easy  task  to  gather  and  transfix  in 
writing  the  exact  idea  which  the  old  woman's  rambling 
dictation  was  intended  to  convey  ;  and  it  was  two  or  three 
hours  before  the  manuscript  was  completed. 

The  sky  was  overcast,  and  a  drizzling  rain  began  to  fi",f 
as  she  walked  home  ;  but  the  distance  was  not  great,  and 
the  only  damage  she  sustained  was  a  slight  dampness  to 
her  garments.  Emily  perceived  it,  and  said,  "  Your  dress 
is  quite  wet,  you  must  sit  by  the  parlour  fire.  I  shall  not 
go  down  until  tea-time,  but  father  is  there,  and  will  be  glad 
of  your  company;  he  has  been  alone  all  the  afternoon." 

Gertrude  found  Mr.  Graham  sitting  in  front  of  a  pleasant 
wood  fire,  half-dozing,  half-reading.  She  took  a  book  and 
u  low  chair  and  joined  him.  But  to  avoid  the  heat  she 
went  to  the  sofa.  Soon  there  was  a  ring  at  the  front  door 
bell.  The  housemaid,  who  was  passing  by  the  doc:, 
opened  it,  and  immediately  ushered  in  a  visitor.  It  was 
Willie! 

Gertrude  rose,  but  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  so  that 
she  dared  not  trust  herself  to  take  a  step  forward.  Willie 
Advanced  to  the  centre  of  the  room,  looked  at  Gertrude. 
bowed,  hesitated,  and  said.  "Miss  Flint! — is  she  here?" 
The  colour  rushed  into  Gertrude's  face.  She  attempted  to 
spoak.  but  failed.  It  was  not  necessary.  The  blush  was 
enough.  Willie  recognised  her,  and  starting  forward, 
eairerly  seized  her  hand. 

"Gerty!  is  it  possible?" 

The  perfect  naturalness  and  ease  of  his  manner,  the 
warmth  with  which  he  took  and  retained  her  hand,  reas- 
sured the  agitated  girl.  The  spell  seemed  partially  re- 
moved. For  a  moment  he  became  in  her  eye.- the  Willie 
of  old,  her  dear  friend  and  playmate,  and  sh 
to  exclaim,  "Oh,  \\  illie,  von  have  come  at  1; 
glad  to  see  you  !"  The  sound  of  their  voices  < 
Graham,  who  had  fallen  into  u  nap.  He  turned  round  in 


322  Tin-:  i .  i  Mr/,  rr,  n TKR. 

his  (visy  chair,  then  rose.  Willie  dropped  Gertrude's  hand 
and  stepped  towards  him.  "  Mr.  Sullivan."  said  Gertrude. 
with  a  feeble  attempt  at  a  suitable  introduction. 

They  shook  hands,  and  then  all  three  sat  down. 

And  now  all  Gertrude's  embarrassment  returned.  It  L 
often  the  case  that  when  the  best  of  friends  meet  after  a 
long  separation  they  salute  or  embrace  each  other,  and 
then,  notwithstanding  the  weight  of  matter  pressing  on  the 
mind  of  eaeh  —  sulll-ient,  perhaps,  to  furnish  subjects  of 
conversation  for  weeks  to  come — nothing  of  importance 
presents  itself  at  once,  and  a  pause,  ensues,  which  is  finally 
filled  up  by  some  trivial  question  concerning  the  journey 
of  the  newly-arrived,  party.  She  had  seen  Willie  before  ; 
she  was  aware  of  his  arrival  ;  knew  even  the  steamer  in 
which  he  had  come  :  but  was  anxious  to  conceal  from  him 
this  knowledge.  She  could  not  tell  him,  since  he  seemed 
so  ignorant  of  the  fart  himself,  that  they  had  met  before  j 
and  she  was  at  an  utter  loss  what  to  do  or  say  under  the 
circumstances.  Hep  embarrassment  soon  communicated 
itself  to  Willie;  and  Mr.  Graham's  presence,  which  was  a 
restraint  to  both,  made  matters  worse.  Willie,  however, 
first  broke  the  momentary  silence. 

<(  I  should  hardly  have  known  you,  Gertrude.  I  did  not 
know  you.  How— 

"'I low  did  you  come?"  asked  Mr.  Graham,  abruptly, 
apparently  unconscious  that  he  was  interrupting  Willie's 
remark. 

•'In  the  Eiirnpa"  replied  Willie.  "She  got  into  New 
York  about  a  week  ago." 

"Out  hero,  I  mean/'  said  Mr.  Graham,  rather  stiffly, 
"Did  von  come  out  in  the  coach?" 

"Oh.  excuse  me,  sir/'  replied  Willie  ;  "I  misunderstood 
you.  Xo.  I  drove  out  from  Boston  in  a  chaise." 

"  l>id  .niyone  take  your  horse?" 

"  I  fast'-nei]  him  in  front  of  the  house." 

Willie  glan.'-ed  out  of  the  window  (it  was  now  nearly 
il  was  still  there.  Mr.  Graham 
-v  chair  and  looked  into  the  are. 
-aid  Gertrude,  in  reply  to  Willie's 
.  fearing  he  might  feel  hurt  at 
e  true  in  more  wavs  than  one,  the 
whieti  had  ret  re, iled  mounted  once  more  to  her 
Jjiit  he  did  ii'jl  teem  to  feel  hurt,  but  replied 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  323 

"Yes,  an  Eastern  climate  makes  great  changes;  but  I 
think  I  can  hardly  have  altered  more  than  you  have.  Why, 
only  think,  Gerty,  you  were  a  child  when  I  went  away  !  I 
suppose  I  must  have  known  I  .should  find  you  a  young 
lady,  but  I  begin  to  think  I  never  fully  realised  it." 

•'When  did  you  leave  Calcutta?" 

"The  latter  part  of  February.  I  passed  tho  spring 
months  in  Paris." 

"You  did  not  write,"  said   Gertrude  in  a  faltering  voice* 

"Xo,  I  was  expecting  to  come  across  by  every  steamer, 
and  wanted  to  surprise  you." 

Gertrude  looked  confused,  but  replied,  "I  was  disap- 
pointed about  the  letters;  but  I  am  verv  fflad  to  see  you 
again,  Willie" 

"You  can't  be  so  glad  as  I  am,"  said  he,  lowering  his 
voice  and  looking  at  her  with  irrcat  tenderness.  "Yon 
seem  more  and  more  like  yourself  to  me  every  minute  that 
I  see  you.  1  begin  to  think,  however,  that  I  ought  to  have 
written  and  told  you  I  was  coming." 

Gertrude  smiled.  Willie's  manner  was  so  unchanged, 
his  words  so  affectionate,  that  it  seemed  unkind  to  doubt 
his  friendliness,  although  to  his  undivided  love  she  felt  she 
could  have  no  claim.  •'•'  Xo,"  said  she,"!  like  surprises. 
Don't  yon  remember,  I  always  did  ?  " 

"Remember?  Certainly/'  leplied  lie;  "I  have  never 
forgotten  anything  that  you  liked.'' 

Just  at  this  moment  Gertrude's  birds,  whose  cage  Iinng 
in  the  window  at,  wh.'cli  Willie  >at,  commenced  a  little 
twittering  noise  which  they  a.l \vavs  made  just  at  night.  Ho 
looked  up.  *'  Your  birds,"  said  Gertrude  ;  "  the  birds  you 
sent  me." 

"  Are  they  all  alive  and  well?"  asked  he. 

"Yes,  all' of  them." 

"You  have  been  a  kind  mistress  to  the  little  things 
They  are  very  tender." 

"1  am  very  fond  of  them." 

"You  take  such  care  of  those  yon  love,  doar  Gerty,  that 
you  are  sure  to  preserve  their  lives  a-  long  as  may  be."  His 
tone  still  more  than  his  words  betrayed  the  deep  meaning 
with  whieh  he  spoke.  Gertrude  was  silent. 

'•Is  Miss  Graham  well?"  asked  Willie. 

Gertrude  related,  in  r^plv.  that,  her  nerve?  h:id  been  re- 
cently much  disturbed  by  tin;  terrible  experiences  through 


S24  TUK  LAMPLIGHTER. 

which  she  had  passed;  and  this  led  to  the  subject  of  th*1 
recent  disaster,  at  whicii  (Jertrude  foivbore  to  mention  her 
having  been  herself  present..  Willie  spoke  with  feeling  ol 
the  sad  catastrophe,  and  with  severity  of  the  reckless  care- 
lessness which  had  been  the  cause  of  it  ;  and  said  that  he 
had  valued  friends  on  hoard  the  boat,  but  was  unaware 
that  Miss  Graham,  whom  he  loved  for  Gertrude's  sake,  was 
among  them. 

Conversation  between  Gertrude  and  Willie  had  by  this 
time  assumed  something  of  their  former  familiarity.  .He. 
had  tak<»u  a  seat  near  her  on  the  sofa,  that  they  might  talk 
unrestrainedly;  for  although  Mr.  (iraham  might  have 
dropped  asleep  again,  yet  it,  was  not  easy  to  forget  his 
presence.  There  were  many  subjects,  on  which  it  would 
have  seemed  natural  for  them  to  speak,  had  not  Gertrude 
avoided  them.  The  causes  of  Willie's  sudden  return,  his 
probable  stay,  his  future  plans  in  life,  and  his  reasons  for 
having  postponed  his  visit  until  he  had  been  in  the  country 
more  than  a  week — all  these  wore  inquiries  which  curiosity 
would  ha\e  suggested;  hut  to  (Jertrude  thev  all  lav  under 
embargo.  She  neither  felt,  pp-pared  to  receive  nor  willing 
to  force  the  confidence  on  matters  which  must  be  influ- 
enced bv  his  em/a^fiuent  with  Miss  Clinton,  and  therefore 
preserved  silence  on  the.-e  topics.  And  Willie,  deeply 
grieved  at  this  strange  want  of  sympathy  on  her  part,  fore- 
bore  to  thrust  up  in  her  notice  the.se  seemingly  neglected 
circumstances. 

Thev  talked  of  Calcutta  life,  of  Parisian  novelties,  of 
Gertrude's  school-keeping,  n::d  manv  other  things,  but  not, 
a  word  of  matters  n'-areM,  to  the  hem-is  of  both.  At  length 
a  servant  announei  d  tea.  Mr.  Graham  rose  and  stood  \vith 
hi-  back  to  the  fire.  Willie  rose  also  and  prepared  to  take, 
leave.  Mr.  (iraham.  with  fr.gid  civility.  in\ited  him  to 

•d  him  to  do  s:»:  bui 


In  a 

dislike, 1    youiig    men    as    a    class,  and    that   \\illie    had    in- 
trude'l   iijtoii   til'1  (irivacv  in    wliieli    he  uas  indulging,  there 

I  hat  ( ierl  rude  had  onee  foi'saken 
!V  (for  o  he  in  In-  own  mind  si  vied  hep 
o  •(•  Ke!  v  -  -  Ilief  mo  ijul  ;es)  for  the 

liieli    t.licir  \;.,;',(>r  \vu.-i    tin?    (.inly  j'einaming 


THE  LAMPLKHITEH.  325 

member — a  recollection  which  (lie!  not  tend  to  conciliate 
the  prejudiced  man. 

Gertrude  accompanied  Willie  to  the  door.  The  ruin  had 
ceased,  but  the  wind  whistled  across  the  piazza.  It  was 
growing  cold.  Willie  button,  d  his  coat,  and  promised  to 
see  Gertrude  on  the  following  day. 

"You  have  no  overcoat,''  said  she  ;  "the  night  is  chilly.' 
and  you  are  accustomed  to  a  hot  climate.  You  hud  better 
take  this  shawl;"  and  she  took  from  the  hat-tree  a  heavy 
.Scotch  plaid,  lie  thanked  her  and  threw  it  over  his  arm  ; 
then,  taking  both  her  hands  in  his,  looked  her  steadily  in 
the  face  for  a  moment,  as  if  he  would  fain  have  spoken. 
But,  seeing  that  .she  shrank  from  his  affectionate  gaze,  IK; 
dropped  her  hands  and,  with  a  troubled  expression,  bade 
her  good -night. 

Gertrude  stood  with  the  handle  of  the  door  in  her  hand 
until  she  heard  the  sounds  of  the  horse's  hoofs  as  he  drove 
down  the  road;  then  retired  to  her  own  room.  Well  as 
she  had  borne  up  during  the  longed-for  yet  much-dreaded 
meeting,  calmly  as  she  had  sustained  her  part,  her  courage 
all  forsook  her  now,  and  in  looking  forward  todays,  weeks, 
and  mouths  of  frequent  intercourse,  she  felt  that  the  most 
trying  part  of  the  struggle  was  yet  to  come. 

Had  Willie  changed  to  her  ?  No  ;  he  had  come  back  as 
ne  went — generous,  manly,  and  affectionate.  He  had  mani- 
fested the  same  unalVeeted  warmth  of  feeling,  the  same 
thoughtful  tenderness  he  had  ever  shown.  In  short,  he 
was  the  Willie  she  had  thought  of.  dreamed  of,  imagined, 
and  loved.  There  was  a  light  tap  at  her  door.  Thinking  it 
a  summons  to  the  tea-taiile,  she  said,  "'Jane,  1  do  not  wish 
for  any  supper/' 

"  It'isn't  that,"  said  the  girl  ;  "but  1  have  brought  you 
ft  letter."  Gertrude  sprang  up  and  opened  the  door. 

"  A  little  boy  handed  it  to  me  and  then  ran  off,"  said 
the  girl,  placing  a  large  park  age  in  her  hand.  "  lie  told 
me  to  give  it  to  you  straight  ;iwav." 

"  Bring  me  a  light,"  said  (J<Tt rude. 

The  girl  went  for  a  lamp,  while  Gertrude  wondered  what 
H  package  so  large  could  i-uiitain.  Sin-  thought  no  letter 
could  so  soon  arrive  "rom  Mr.  Amory.  Wnile  she  was  won- 
dering, Jane  brought  a  lamp,  bv  the  light  of  which  she  de- 
tected his  handwriting;  and,  breaking  tin*  seal,  she  drew 
from  the  envelope  several  closely-written  pages,  whose  cou- 


326  TIIK   r.AMl'L. 

tents  she  perused    with  the  greatest  eagerness  and  excite- 
ment 


CliAITKR  XLV. 

Tin:  FATHER'S  STORY. 

MY  DArnnTKK,-  .My  loving,  kind-hearted  «;iri.  Now 
chat  your  o\\  n  words  encourage  me  \vith  the  assurance  thai; 
my  tirst  fear  \v;is  unfounded— now  thai  1  can  appeal  to  you 
as  tu  an  impartial  witness,  I  wiil  disclose  the  story  of  my 
life;  and,  wh.le  1  prove  to  von  your  parentage,  will  hope, 
that  niy  unprejudiced  child  at  least  \\ill  believe,  love,  und 
trust  her  fat  Her.  in  spite  of  a  \\orld 's  injustice. 

"1  will  conceal  notiii.Mg.  I  \\;11  pinnae  at  once  into 
those  disclosures  which  1  must  dread  to  utter,  and  trust  to 
after  explanation  to  pal.iaie  I!M  darkness  <_>!'  mv  tale. 

'*' Mr.  (Jraliain  is  mv  step-father,  and  mv  blessed 
moth'-r,  luML1,  since  dead,  was,  in  ail  b;it  tin-  tit;  of  natui'e.  a 
ti'ue  iiiothci1  to  Kmilv.  Tiius  allied  to  thuse  whom  vou 
love  be~t.  1  am  parted  from  them  bv  a  heavv  curse;  for, 
not  otilv  was  mine  ;h"  ill-f;ited  hand  (uh,  hate  mo  not  vet, 
(iertrude  !)  which  o  'ked  [ioor  l-lmilv  up  in  darkne.-s.  but  I 
stand  accused  in  the  eyes  of  my  fellow-men  of  anotiier 
crime,  deep,  dai'K,  and  ili.-^raeeful.  And  yet,  though  liv- 
inur  under  a  ban,  wan  :  Til  Lr  up  and  down  the  world  a 
doomed  and  broken-hearted  man,  I  am  innocent  as  a  child 
of  all  inti  ntioii  ii  wron^,  as  YOU  \vdl  learn,  if  you  can  trust 
to  t.ii"  t.ru  '•  o!'  the  tale  1  am  ahou!  to  tell. 

"  N'atui'e  Lj.-ive   ind  education  fostered  in  me  a    rebellious. 

:  ••   id  il  of   mv  invalid  mother,  who,  though 

she    loved    in"    \vith    a    lov    for    which   I  biess  her  memorv, 

had    I) "t    !::•••'••:•  _r  \    !  o    - '  i  :  •  i     i  •   L  i  1  e    I  >a  SS i o  1 1 a  t  e  uii  d    wilful   !  i  a- 


liiit  a  sudden  check  was  at  h'li^th 

\    mot  h'-i    ina  rrifil.  and   1  soon  camo 

.     -     .  •  .   her  husband,  .M  r.  (iruham, 

:.  :;;  ,    bu\ish   iiuie|)eiidence.     Jla-d 


TIIK  LAMP[J(11TTER.  32? 

he  treated  me  with  kindness,  hud  he  won  my  affections 
(which  he  might  easily  have  done,  for  my  sensitive  and  im- 
passioned nature  disposed  me  to  every  tender  and  grateful 
emotion),  great  would  have  been  his,  influence  in  moulding 
my  vet  unformed  character. 

•'  But  his  behaviour  towards  mo  was  that  of  chilling 
coldness  and  reserve.  He  repelled  with  scorn  the  first  ad* 
/ance  on  my  part  which  led  me,  at  my  mother's  instigation, 
;;o  address  him  by  the  paternal  title- — an  offence  of  which  I 
never  again  was  guilty.  And  yet,  while  lie  seemed  to  ig- 
nore the  relationship,  he  assumed  its  authority,  thus  wound- 
ing my  pride  and  exciting  opposition  to  his  commands. 

"Two  things  strengthened  my  dislike  for  my  overbearing 
step-father.  One  was  the  consciousness  of  my  dependence 
upon  his  bountv;  the  other  a  hint,  which  1  received  through 
a  domestic,  that  Mr.  (Iraham's  dislike  tome  had  its  origin 
in  an  old  enmit.v  between  himself  and  my  own  father — un 
honourable  and  high-minded  man,  whom  it  was  ever  my 
greatest  pride  to  be  told  that  I  resembled. 

"•  (treat  as  was  the  warfare  in  my  heart,  power  rested  with 
Mr.  (iraham;  for  1  was  yet  but  a  child,  and  necessarily 
subject  to  government — nor  could  I  be  deaf  to  my  mother's 
entreaties  that,  for  her  sake,  J  would  learn  submission,  Jt 
was  only,  therefore,  when  I  had  been  most  unjustly  thwarted 
that  I  broke  into  direct  rebellion;  and  even  then  there 
were  influences  ever  at  work  to  preserve  outward  harmony 
in  our  household.  Thus  years  passed  on.  and  though  1  did 
not  love  Mr.  (Iraham  more,  the  force  of  hal'it,  the  interest, 
afforded  by  my  studies,  and  increasing  self-control,  ren- 
dered my  life  luss  obnoxious  to  me  than  it  had  once  been. 

'*  I  had  one  great  compensation  for  mv  trials — the  love  I 
cherished  for  Kmilv,  who  responded  to  it  with  equal  warmth 
'on  her  part.  It  was  not  because  she  stood  between  me  and 
her  father,  a  mediator  and  a  friend;  nor  because  she  sub- 
mitted to  mv  dictation  and  aided  me  in  all  mv  plans;  it 
was  because  our  natures  were  made  for  each  other,  and,  as 
they  grew  and  expanded,  were  bound  together  by  ties 
which  a  rude  hand  onlv  could  rend  asunder.  This  tender- 
ness and  depth  of  affection  became  the  life  of  mv  life. 

"  At  lenuth  mv  mother  died.  J  was  at  that  time,  son.-lv 
aga.n-t  mv  will,  employed  in  M  r,  (Iraham's  counting-house, 
ami  an  inmate  of  his  family.  And  now.  without  excuse, 
my  step-father  beifan  a  course  of  policy  as  unwise  as  it  was 


cruel;  and  so  irritating  to  mv  pride,  and  so  torturing  to 
mv  fee 'ing's,  that  it.  angered  nit1  almost  to  frcnzv.  He  tried 
tn  rob  11  u-  el'  the  only  thin^  that  ,s\\  eetened  and  blest  mv 
existence — the  love  of  Emily.  J  will  not  here  recount  the 
motives  1  imputed  to  him,  nor  the  means  lie  employed. 
Hut  they  were  such  as  to  change  my  former  dislike  into 
bitter  hatred  and  opposition. 

''  Instead  of  submitting  to  his  tyrannical  interference.  I 
sought  Emily's  society  on  all  occasions,  and  persuaded  the 
gentle  girl  to  lend  herself  to  my  schemes  for  tlnvarting  her 
father's  purposes.  I  did  not  speak  to  her  of  love;  1  did 
not  seek  to  bind  her  to  me  by  promises;  1  hinted  nut  at 
marriage  ;  a  sense  of  honour  forbade  it.  P>ut,  with  a  boyish 
independence,  which  1  fear  was  the  height  of  imprudence, 
1  sought  every  occasion,  even  in  her  Father's  presence,  to 
maintain  that  constant  familiarity  of  intercourse  which  had 
bei'ii  the  growth  of  circumstances,  and  could  not,  \\ithuut 
force,  be  rest  rained. 

"At  length  Emily  was  taken  ill,  and  for  six  weeks  I  was 
debarred  her  presence.  When  sufficiently  recovered  to 
leave  her  room,  1  sought  and  at  hi-4  obtained  an  opportunity 
to  see  her.  \\'e  had  been  togeth  r  in  the  library  more  than 
an  hour  when  Mr.  (Iraham  suddenly  entered,  and  came 
towards  us  w:th  a  fare  whose  severity  I  shall  not  soon  for- 


•    plainly    his   resolve    to   place   barriers   between 
mysi'if.  I   fully  expected,  and  was  ready  with  my 
it  when  In-  Imrsl   forth    \\ith  a  torrent  of  nngen- 
'U~e-     \\hni    he  imputed  to  me  mean  and  selfish 
lich    had     never    occurred    to   my    mind — I   was 
u  it  h  surpr  se  and  an'jvr. 

the  presence  of  the  pure-minded  girl  whrm  I 
e  eh    rged  me  'Aith  a  liorntl  crime — the  crime 
recently    discovered,  but 
•it   had  raged  before — now 
h.ind    and    clenched    my  fist. 
i\\   not.      \\'hether    I  should 
my    innocence,  and    refute  a 
charge  utterly  false — or  whether,  my  voice  failing  me  from 


Tim  LAM'r 

passion,  I  should  have  swept  Mr.  (Jrahani  from  my  path, 
perhu]>s  felled  him  to  the  iloor,  while  I  strode  uway  to  rally 
my  calmness  in  the  open  air — 1  cannot  now  conjecture  ; 
for  a  wild  shriek  i'rom  Emily  recalled  me  to  myself,  and, 
turning,  I  saw  her  fall  fainting  upon  the  sofa. 

"'Forgetting  everything  hut  the  apparently  dying  condi- 
tion into  which  the  horror  of  the  scene  had  thrown  her  1 
sprang  forward  to  her  relief.  There  was  a  table  beside  het 
and  some  bottles  upon  it.  I  hastily  snatched  what  I  be- 
lieved to  oe  a  simple  restorative,  and  in  my  agitation 
emptied  the  contents  of  the  phial  in  her  face.  1  know 
not  what  the  exact  character  of  the  mixture  could  have 
been;  but  its  matters  not — its  effect  was  too  awfully  evi- 
dent. The  fatal  deed  was  done — and  mine  was  the  hand 
that  did  it ! 

''Brought  suddenly  to  consciousness  by  the  intolerable 
torture  that  succeeded,  the  poor  girl  sprang  screaming  from 
the  sofa,  Hung  her  arms  wildly  above  her  head,  rushed  in 
a  frantic  manner  through  the  room,  and  crouched  in  a 
corner.  I  followed  in  an  agony  scarce  less  than  her  own; 
but  she  repelled  me  with  her  hands,  uttering1  piercing 
shrieks.  Mr.  (Jraham,  who  for  an  instant  had  looked  like 
one  paralysed  by  the  scene,  now  rushed  forward  like  a 
madman.  Instead  of  aiding  me  in  my  efforts  to  lift  poor 
Ernilv  from  the  Iloor,  and  so  far  from  compassionating  my 
situation,  which  was  only  less  pitiable  than  hers,  he,  with  a 
fierceness  redoubled  at  my  being  the  sole  cause  of  the  dis- 
aster, attacked  me  with  a  storm  of  cruel  reproaches,  de- 
claring that  I  had  killed  his  child.  With  words  like  these, 
which  are  still  ringing  in  my  ears,  he  drove?  me  from  the 
room  and  the  house;  a  repulsion  which  I,  overpowered  by 
contrition  and  remorse,  had  neither  the  wish  noi  the 
strength  to  resist. 

"Oh!  the  terrible  night  and  day  that  succeeded!  J 
wandered  out  into  the  country,  spent  the  whole  night 
walking  beneath  the  open  sky,  endeavouring  to  collect  mv 
thoughts  and  compose  my  mind,  and  still  morning  found 
me  with  a  1'eveivd  pulse  and  exeited  brain.  With  the 
returning  light,  however.  1  began  to  realise  the  necessity 
of  forming  some  future  plan  of  action. 

"  Kmily's  sad  situation,  and  my  intense  anxiety  to  learn 
the  worst  effects  of  the  fatal  accident,  urged  me  to  hasten 
with  the  earliest  morning,  either  openly  or  by  stealth,  to 


330  77777  LAWPT.WHTKK. 


Mr.  Graham's  house.     Everything  also  which  T  possessed— 
all    my  money,  the   resi'iue  of    my  !a.-t   (pwrter's  allowance, 

mv  clothing,  ami  a  few  valuable  ijifts  I' rum  mv  mother-- 
were  in  t  he  chamber  which  I  had  occupied.  There  seemed, 
to  he  no  other  course  left  for  me  than  to  return  thither, 
ami  I  retracted  mv  steps  to  the  city,  determined,  if  it 
were  necessurv  in  order  to  <jain  the  desired  particulars  con- 
cerning JKmily,  to  meet  her  father  face  to  face.  But  as  t 
drew  near  the  liouse  I  hesitated  and  dared  not  proceed. 
Mr.  Graham  had  exhausted  upon  me  every  angry  word, 
had  threatened  even  deeds  of  violence  should  T  a^ain  cross 
liis  threshold:  and  I  feared  to  trust  mv  own  iierv  spirit  to 
a  collision  in  which  I  might  be  led  on  loan  open  resistance 
of  the  man  whom  1  had  already  sutlieiently  injured.  In 
the  terrihle  work  I  had  hut  yesterdav  dom — a  work  of 
whose  fatal  elTect  1  had  even  then  a  gloomy  foreshadowing 
—  I  liad  blighted  the  existence  of  his  worshipped  child,  and 
drawn  a  dark  pall  over  his  dearest  hopes.  It  was  enough. 
I  would  not  for  worlds  he  ^uiltv  of  the  sin  of  lifting  mv 
hand  against  the  man  who.  unjust  as  he  had  been  towards 
an  innocent  youth,  had  met.  a  retaliation  far  too  severe. 

'•Still,  I  knew  his  wrath  to  he  unmitigated,  was  well 
aware  of  his  power  to  excite  my  hot  nature  to  frenxv.  and 
resolved  to  beware  how  1  crossed  his  path.  Meet  him  I 
must,  to  refute  the  false  charges  he  had  brought  against 
me;  hut  not  within  the  walls  of  his  dwelling,  the  home  of 
his  suffering  daughter.  In  the  counting-house,  where  the 
crime  of  forgery  was  said  to  have  heen  committed,  and  in 
the  presence  of  my  fellow-clerks,  I  would  ptibiiclv  denv  the 
dei-i!,  and  dare  him  to  it<  proof.  But  tirst  1  must,  either 
see  or  hear  from  Kmily  lie  fore  I  met  the  father  at  all.  I 
must  learn  the  exact,  nature  and  extent,  of  the  wrong  1  had 
done  him  in  the  per-on  of  his  child.  For  tli;.-.  however.  I 
mu-t  wait  unt,!,  under  cover  of  the  next  night's  darkness, 
1  could  enter  the  house  nnpereeived. 

all    dav  in  torment,  without,  hav- 

iiight  of  in  v  | r,  dariinLr.  t>  >rt  ured 

mv  wretched  thoughts.      The    hours 
1   remember  that  dav  of  suspense  as 
>  e  vear  of  nn-erv.      But   ni^ht  came  at 
air  ll.iekenrd  \\.tii  a  heavy  lo_r  \\lncii, 
,-treel   where    Mr.  (Iraham    livei),   eoii- 
n.ale-i    the  liouse   until  1  was   opposite  to  it.     1   shuddered 


TIIK  LAMPLTaiTTER 

at  the  sight  of  the  physician's  chaise  standing  before  the 
door;  for  I  know  that  Dr.  Jeremy  had  Hosed  his  visits  to 
Emily  more  than  a  week  previously,  and  must  have  been 
summoned  to  attend  her  since  the  accident.  Thinking  it 
probable  that  Mr.  Graham  was  in  the  house,  I  forbore  to 
enter,  but  stood  concealed  by  the  mist,  and  watching  my 
opportunity. 

••Once  or  twice  Mrs.  Ellis,  the  housekeeper,  passed  up 
and  down  the  staircase,  as  I  could  distinctly  see  through  the 
sidelights  of  the  door,  and  Dr.  Jeremy  descended,  followed 
by  Mr.  Graham.  The  doctor  would  have  passed  hastily  out, 
but  Mr.  Graham  detained  him,  to  question  him  regarding 
his  patient,  as  I  judged  from  the  anxiety  depicted  on  my 
step  father's  countenance.  The  doctor's  back  was  towards 
me,  and  I  could  only  judge  of  his  replies  by  the  effect  they 
produced  on  the  questioner,  whose  haggard  appearance 
became  more  distressed  at  every  syllable  that  fell  from  the 
honest  and  truthful  lips  of  the  medical  man,  whose  words 
were  oracles  to  all  who  knew  his  skill. 

•'"'  I  needed,  therefore,  no  further  testimony  to  force  the 
conviction  that  Emily's  fate  was  sealed;  and  as  I  looked 
with  pity  upon  the  afflicted  parent,  and  shuddering]  y 
thought  of  my  agency  in  the  work  of  destruction.  I  felt 
that  the  unhappy  father  could  not  curse  me  more  bitterly 
than  I  cursed  myself.  Deeply,  however,  as  I  mourned, 
and  have  never  ceased  to  repent,  my  share  in  the  exciting 
of  that  storm  wherein  the  poor  girl  had  been  so  cruelly 
shipwrecked.  I  could  not  forget  the  part  that  Mr.  (iraham 
had  borne  in  (he  transaction,  or  forgive  the  wicked  injus- 
tice and  insults  which  had  so  unmanned  me  as  to  render 
my  hand  a  tit  instrument  only  of  ruin;  and  as.  after  the 
doctor's  departure,  1  watched  my  step-father  walk  awav- 
i.uid  saw  by  a  street-lamp  that  the  look  of  pain  had  passe;1, 
from  his  face,  giving  place  to  his  u-ual  composed  and  arro- 
gant expression,  and,  understood  bv  the  loud  and  nieasureii 
manner  in  which  he  struck  his  cane  upon  the  pavement, 
that  he  was  far  from  sharing  my  humble,  penitent  mood,  1 
ceased  to  waste  upon  him  a  compassion  which  he  seemed  MI 
little  to  require  or  deserve:  and.  pitying  m\seif  onlv.  I 
looked  upon  his  stern  face  with  a  soul  which  cherished  for 
him  no  other  sentiment  than  that  of  unmitigated  hatred. 
J)o  not  shrink  from  me,  (Jertrudc.  as  you  read  tins  frank 
confession  of  my  passionate  and  deeply  stirred  nature. 


3.'J2  T1TK  LA^r^TlTOJTTKn. 

You  know  not,  perhaps.  what  it  is  to  liate;  rnit  have  you 
ever  been  tried  as  I  was  ? 

"  As  Mi1,  Graham  turned  the  corner  of  the  street,  I  ap- 
proached nis  house,  drew  forth  a  pass-key  of  my  own,  bv 
means  of  which  I  opened  the  door,  and  went  in.  It  was 
perfectly  quiet,  and  no  person  was  to  be  seen  in  any  of  the 
lower  rooms.  I  passed  noiselessly  upstairs,  and  entered  a* 
little  chamber  at,  the  head  of  the  passage  which  communi- 
cated with  Emily's  room.  1  waited  here  a  long  time,  hear- 
ing no  sound  and  seeing  no  one.  But  fearing  that  Mr. 
Graham  would  shortly  return,  I  determined  to  ascend  to 
niv  own  room,  collect  my  money  and  a  few  articles  of 
value,  and  then  make  my  way  to  the  kitchen,  and  gain 
what  news  1  could  of  Kmily  from  Mrs.  I'rinie.  the  cook,  a 
kind-hearted  woman,  who  would,  I  felt  sure,  befriend  me. 

"  The  lirsl  part  of  my  object  was  accomplished,  and  [ 
had  descended  the  back  staircase  to  gain  Mrs.  Prime's 
premises,  when  I  suddenly  met  Mrs.  Kllis  coming  from  the 
kitchen,  with  a  bowl  of  gruel  in  her  hand.  She  was  ac- 
quainted with  all  the  particulars  <.  f  the  accident,  and  bad 
been  a  witness  to  my  expulsion  from  the  house.  She 
stopped  short  on  seeing  me,  gave  a  slight  scream, 
dropped  the  bow!  of  gruel,  and  prepared  to  make  her 
escape,  as  if  from  a.  wild  beast,  which  1  doubt  not  that  I 
resembled;  since  wretchedness,  fasting,  suffering,  and 
desperation  must  all  have  been  depicted  in  niv  features.  I. 
piaccd  mv.-eif  in  her  path,  and  compelled  her  to  stop  and 
ii-t"M  tn  me.  But  before  mv  eager  questions  could  find 
utterance,  an  outburst  from  her  confirmed  niv  worst  fears. 

"  •  Let  me  go  !  '  .-he  exclaimed.      •  You  villain  !    von  will 

be    put  t  !Ilg   III  V   CVeS  out    HCXt    '.  ' 

"  •  Whe'v  is  Kmilv?'    I  cried.     '  Let  me  see  her  !'  « 

"'See    her!'   replied    she.       'You    horrid    wretch!     Xo  ! 

she  has  .MiiTered  enough  from    YOU.      She  is  .satisfied  herself 

now.' 

"'What  do   YOU    mean?'  shouted    I,   shaking  t  he  house- 
houlder, fur   her  words  seared   my 


from  me  then,  in  the 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  333 

"The  reply  was  ready,  however.  'Hate  ycv.  ?  Yes — 
more  than  that;  she  cannot  find  words  bad  enough  for  you  1 
She  mutters,  even  in  her  pain,  •'  Cruel  !— wicked  ! '  She 
shudders  at  the  sound  of  your  name;  and  we  are  all  forbidden 
to  speak  it  in  her  presence/  I  waited  to  hear  no  more,  but 
rushed  out  of  the  house.  That  moment  was  the  crisis  of 
my  life.  The  thunderbolt  had  fallen  upon  and  crushed 
me.  My  hopes,  my  happiness,  my  fortune,  my  good  name. 
had  gone  before;  but  one  solitary  light  had,  until  now, 
glimmered  in  the  darkness.  It  was  Emily's  love.  I  had 
trusted  in  that— that  only.  It  had  passed  away,  and  with 
it  my  youth,  my  faith,  my  hope  of  heaven. 

"From  that  moment  1  ceased  to  be  myself.  Then  fell 
upon  me  the  cloud  in  which  I  have  ever  since  been 
shrouded,  and  under  which  you  have  seen  and  known  me. 
In  that  instant  the  blight  had  come,  under  the  gnawing 
influence  of  which  my  happy  laugh  changed  to  the  bitter 
smile;  my  frank  and  pleasant  speech  to  tones  of  ill-con- 
cealed irony  and  sarcasm;  my  hair  became  prematurely 
grey,  my  features  sharp  and  severe;  my  fellow-men,  to 
whom  I  hoped  to  prove  some  day  a  benefactor,  were  hence- 
forth the  armed  hosts  of  antagonists,  with  whom  I  would 
wage  endless  war — and  the  God  whom  1  had  worshipped  — 
whom  I  had  believed  in,  as  a  just  and  faithful  friend  and 
avenger — who  was  He  ? — where  was  lie? — and  why  did  He 
not  right  my  cause?  What  direful  and  premeditated  deed 
of  darkness  had  1  been  guilty  of  that  lie  should  thus  de- 
sert me?  Alas  ! — I  lost  my  faith  in  Heaven  ! 

"I  know  not  what  direction  I  took  on  leaving  Mr. 
Graham's  house.  I  have  no  recollection  of  any  of  the 
streets  through  which  I  passed,  though  doubtless  they 
were  all  familiar:  but  I  paused  not  until,  having  reached 
the  end  of  a  Avharf,  I  found  myself  gazing  down  into  the 
deep  water,  longing  to  take  one  marl  leap  and  lose  myself 
in  everlasting  oblivion  !  l>ut  for  this  final  blow,  beneath 
which  my  manhood  had  fallen.  I  would  have  cherished  my 
life,  at  least,  until  I  could  vindicate  its  fair  fame;  I  would 
never  have  left  a  blackened  memory  for  men  to  dwell  upon 
and  for  Emily  to  weep  over.  Hut  now  what  cared  1  tor 
my  fellow-men  !  And  Emily  I— she  had  ceased  to  love, 
and  would  not  mourn;  and  I  loii'jei!  for  the  grave.  There 
ate  moments  in  human  life  when  a  word,  a  look,  01  .1 


S.'U  THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 

thought,  may  weigh  down  the  balance  in  the  scales  of  fate 
and  deride  a  destiny. 

"So  it  was  witli  me.     I  was  incapable  of  forming  any 

flan  for  myself;  lint  accident,  as  it  were,  decided  for  me. 
was  startled  from  the  apathy  into  which  I  had  fallen  by 
the  sudden  splashing  of  otirs  in  the  water  beneath,  and  in 
a  moment  a  little  boat  was  moored  to- a  pier  within  a  rod 
of  the  spot  where  I  stood.  I  also  heard  footsteps  on  ,h-;> 
wharf,  and,  turning,  saw  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  whirl 
was  just,  appearing  from  behind  a  heavy  cloud,  a  stout  sea' 
faring  man,  with  a  heavy  pea-jacket  under  one  arm  and  an 
old-fashioned  carpet-bag  in  his  left  hand,  lie  had  aruddv, 
good-humoured  face,  and  as  he  was  about  to  pass  me  and 
leap  into  the  boat,  where  two  sailors,  with  their  oars  dipped 
and  ready  for  motion,  were  awaiting  him.  he  slapped  me 
on  the  shoulder,  and  exclaimed.  '  Well,  my  fine  fellow,  will 
you  ship  with  us?'  I  answered  as  readilv  in  the  attirma- 
tive  ;  and,  with  one  look  in  my  face,  and  a  glance  at  my 
dress,  which  seemed  to  assure  him  of  my  station  in  life  and 
probable  ability  to  make  compensation  for  the  pas.- age, 
he  said,  in  a  laughing  tone,  'In  with  you,  then  I' 

"To  his  astonishment — for  he  had  scarcely  believed  mo 
i)i  earnest — I  sprang  into  the  boat,  and  in  a  few  moments 
was  on  board  of  a  fine  bark,  bound  I  knew  not  whither. 
The  vessel's  destination  was  Uio  Janeiro — a  fact  which  I 
did  not  learn  fill  we  had  been  two  or  three  days  at  sea,  and 
to  which  I  felt  wholly  indifferent.  There  was  one  other 
passenger  beside  myself — the  captain's  daughter,  Lucy 
Orey,  whom  during  the  first  week  I  scarcely  noticed,  but 
who  appeared  to  b"  as  much  at  home,  whether  in  the  cabin 
or  on  deck,  as  if  she  had  pa-s.-d  her  whole  life  at  sea  I 
might  have  made  the  entire  passage  without  giving  another 
thought  to  this  young  girl —half  child,  halt'  woman  •-- had 
not  my  si-nige  behaviour  led  her  so  to  conduct  herself 
which  surprised  and  finally  interested  me.  Mvwild  and 
excited  countenance,  mvcon.-tant  restlessness,  avoidance  of 

yt 


fcomi 


THK  LAMPLIGHTER  335 

touched  by  her  kindness,  I  took  food  more  readily  from 
her  hand  than  any  other,  these  little  attentions  became  at 
last  habitual.  As  my  manners  grew  calmer  and  I  settled 
into  a  melancholy  which,  though  equally  deep,  was  less 
fearful  than  the  feverish  torment  under  which  I  hud  la- 
boured, she  became  reserved,  and  when  I  began  to  apjiear 
somewhat  like  my  fellow-men,  went  regularly  to  the  table, 
and,  instead  of  pacing  the  deck  all  night,  spent  a  part  of  it 
quietly  in  my  state-room,  Lucy  absented  herself  wholly 
from  that  part  of  tiie  vessel  where  I  passed  the  greater  por- 
tion of  the  day,  and  I  seldom  exchanged  a  word  with  her, 
unless  I  purposely  sought  her  society. 

"The  stormy  weather  drove  me  to  the  cabin,  where  she 
usually  sat  on  the  transom  reading  or  watching  the  troubled 
waves  ;  and,  as  the  voyage  was  long,  we  were  thrown  much 
in  each  other's  way,  especially  as  Captain  Grey,  who  had 
invited  me  to  ship  with  him.  and  who  seemed  to  take  an 
interest  in  my  welfare,  good-naturedly  encouraged  an  in- 
tercourse by  which  he  probably  hoped  I  might  be  won  from 
a  state  of  melancholy  that  seemed  to  grieve  the  jolly  ship- 
master almost  as  much  as  it  did  his  kind-hearted,  sensitive 
child. 

'•  Lucy's  shyness,  therefore,  wore  gradually  away,  and 
before  our  tedious  passage  Avas  completed  I  ceased  to  be  a 
restraint  upon  her.  She  talked  freely  with  me  ;  for  while 
I  maintained  a  rigid  silence  concerning  my  own  past  ex- 
periences, of  which  I  could  scarcely  endure  to  think,  she 
exerted  herself  freely  for  my  entertainment,  and  related 
Avith  simple  frankness  almost  every  circumstance  of  her 
•past  life.  Sometimes  1  listened  attentively;  sometimes,  ab- 
sorbed in  my  own  painful  reflections,  I  would  be  deaf  to 
her  voice  and  forgetful  of  her  presence.  Then  I  often  ob- 
served that  she  had  suddenly  ceased  speaking,  and,  starting 
from  my  reverie  and  looking  quickly  up,  would  find  lu  > 
eves  fixed  upon  me  so  reproachfully  that,  rallying  mv  sc.  •> 
command,  1  would  try  to  appear,  and  sometimes  be'-in,. 
seriously  interested  in  the  artless  narratives  of  mylii'i 
entertainer.  She  told  me  that  until  she  was  fourteen  yea  fi- 
eld sh"  lived  with  her  mother  in  u  little  cottage  on  C;ipe 
Cud,  their  home  bein^  only  occasionally  enlivened  by  tin 
return  of  her  father  from  his  long  absence-  ;i(  sen.  Tiiey 
would  visit  the  city  where  his  vessel  lay,  pass  a  few  \veeks 
in  great  enjoyment,  and  then  return  to  mourn  the  depait- 


,'/',0  THE  LA^fr 

tire  of  the  cheerful  sea-captain,  and  patiently  count  th« 
wf-k-  and  months,  until  h:s  return.  She  told  me  how  her 
mother  died;  how  bitterly  .she  mourned  her  lo.-s,  ami  how 
her  fat, her  wept,  when  he  fame  home  and  heunl  the  news; 
how  .she  had  lived  on  rh ipboard  ever  since;  and  how  sad 
and  lonely  .she  felt  in  lime  of  storms  when  she  sat  alone  in 
the  cabin  listening  to  the  roar  of  the  winds  and  waves. 

'  Tears,  would  eome  into  her  eye.s  when  she  spoke  of  these 
Jungs,  and  I  would  look  upon  her  with  pity  as  one  whom 
-.orrow  made  mv  sister.  Trial,  however,  liad  not  robbed 
her  of  ;in  ehisti'-,  buoyant  spirit;  and  when,  sifter  the  com- 
pletion of  some  eloquent  tale  of  early  grief,  the  captain 
would  approach  unseen  and  surprise  her  by  si  sudden  joke 
or  sly  piece  of  mischief,  thus  provoking  her  to  retaliate, 
nlie  was  si  I  way.-,  ready  fora,  war  of  wits,  si  laughing  frolic, 
or  even  a.  game  of  romps.  Her  tears  dried  up,  her  merry 
voice  and  phiyful  words  would  delight  her  father,  and  tho 
raliin  would  ring  with  peals  of  laughter;  while  I, shrinking 
from  a  ninth  sadlv  at,  variance  with  my  own  happiness,  and 
tin-  sound  so  discordant  to  my  sensitive  nerves,  would  retire 
to  brood  over  miseries  for  which  it  was  hopeless  to  expect 
Kvmpathv  which  could  not  be  shared,  and  with  which  \ 
inii-.t.  dwell  alone. 

"Such  a  misanthrope  had  my  misfortunes  made  me  that 
tin-  sportive  raillery  between  the  captain  and  his  merry 
daughter,  and  the  musical  laugh  with  which  she  would  re- 
spond to  the  witticisms  of  two  old  sailors,  grated  upon  my 
ears  like  something  scarce  less  than  personal  injuries;  nor 
could  I  ha.vc  believed  it  possible  that  one  so  little  able  U9 
Lucy  to  comprehend  the  depth  of  my  sufferings  could  feel 
anv  sincere  compassion  for  thorn  had  1  not  once  or  twice 
touched  to  see  how  her  innocent  mirth  would  give 
to  sudden  sadness  of  countenance  if  she  chanced  to 
mv  woe-began e  face,  rendered  douMv  gloomy 
contrasted  with  the  traictv  of  herself  and  oi  her 


I  mil  -t  not  linger  loo  !<>ng  upon  the  details  of  our 
hipboard.      1    must    forbear    giving    account  of  a 
that   we    i-nci'iintered,   during  which,  for  two 
•  r    l.ucy  was    hall'    frantic   with    fesir  ; 
[ward  discomforts  and    ind  ilferon '  to 
all'oi'ded    an    opportunity   to    requite 


TWS  LAMPLIGHTER.  337 

her  Kindness  by  such  protection  and  encouragement  as  1 
was  able  to  render. 

"Captain  Grey  died.  We  were  within  a  week's  sail  of 
our  destination  when  he  was  taken  ill,  and  three  days  be- 
fore we  were  safely  anchored  in  the  harbour  of  Kio  he 
breathed  his  last.  I  shared  with  Lucy  the  office  of  minis- 
tering to  the  suffering  man,  closed  his  eyes  at  last,  ancj 
carried  the  fainting  girl  in  my  arms  to  another  part  of  tin 
vessel.  With  kind  words  and  persuasions  I  restored  her  to 
her  senses;  and  then,  as  the  full  consciousness  of  her  deso- 
lation rushed  upon  her,  she  stink  at  once  into  a  state  of 
hopeless  despondency  painful  to  witness.  Captain  Grey 
had  made  no  provision  for  his  daughter.  "Well  might  the 
poor  girl  lament  her  sad  fate  !  for  she  was  without  a  rela- 
tive in  tiie  world,  penniless,  and  approaching  a  strange 
shore,  which  afforded  no  refuge  to  the  orphan,  We  buried 
her  lather  in  tin-  sea;  and  thai  sad  oflice  fulfilled,  I  sought 
Lucy  and  endeavoured  to  arouse  her  to  a  sense  of  her  situ- 
ation and  advise  with  her  concerning  the  future  ;  for  wo 
were  now  so  near  our  port  that  in  a  few  hours  we  might  be 
compelled  to  leave  the  vessel  and  seek  quarters  in  the  city. 
She.  listened  to  me  without  replying.  I  hinted  at  the 
necessity  of  my  leaving  her,  and  begged  to  know  if  she 
had  any  plans  for  the  future.  She  answered  me  only  by  a 
burst  of  tears.  1  begged  her  not  to  weep. 

''And  then,  with  many  sobs,  and  interrupting  herself 
by  frequent  exclamations  of  vehement  sorrow,  she  threw 
herself  upon  my  compassion,  and.  with  child-like  artless- 
ness,  entreated  me  not  to  leave  her  or,  as  she  termed  it.  to 
desert  her.  She  reminded  me  that  she  was  alone  in  the 
world;  that  the  moment  she  stepped  foot  on  shore  she 
should  be  in  a  land  of  strangers;  and,  appealing  to  my 
mercy,  besought  me  not  to  leave  her  to  die  alone. 

"  What  could  I  do  ?  I  had  nothing  on  earth  to  live  for, 
We  were  both  alike  orphaned  and  desolate.  There  was 
but  one  point  of  difference.  I  could  work  and  protect 
her  ;  she  could  do  neither  for  herself.  It  would  be  some- 
thing for  me  to  live  for;  and  for  her,  though  but,  a  refuse 
of  poverty  and  want,  it  was  better  than  th--  exposure  ;md 
suffering  that  must  otherwise  aw.-iit  her.  I  t.oM  her  how 

little  1  had  to  offer  ;  thut  inv  heart  even  Was  crushed  and 
broken;  bi't  that  1  was  re;idy  to  labour  in  her  behalf,  tn 
guard  her  from  danger,  to  p;ty,  and  perhaps  in  time  learn 


to  love  her.  The  unsophisticated  girl  had  never  thought 
of  marriage :  she  had  sought  the  protection  of  a  friend, 

not  a  husband  :  hut  I  explained  to  her  that  tlie  latter  tie 
oiilv  would  obviate  the  neces.-ity  of  our  parting;  and.  in 
the  humility  of  Borrow,  she  finally  accepted  my  unflatter- 
ing otTer. 

••  The  only  confidant  to  our  sudden  engagement,  the  only 
witness  of  the  marriage,  which  within  ;i  few  hours  cn>ued, 
was  an  old.  weather-beaten  sailor,  who  had  known  and 
loved  Lucy  from  her  childhood — Ken  Grant.  lie  accom- 
panied us  on  shore  and  to  the  church.  He  followed  us  to 
the  humble,  lodging.-?  with  which  we  contrived  for  the 
present  to  be  contented,  and  devoted  himself  to  Lucy  with 
self-sacrificing,  but  in  one  instance,  alas  !  (as  you  will  soon 
learn),  with  mistaken  and  fatal  /e;il. 

'•After  much  difficulty,  I  obtained  employment  from  a 
man  in  whom  I  accidentally  rccogni/ed  an  old  and  valued 
friend  of  mv  father.  lie  had  been  in  U'io  several  years, 
and  was  actively  engaged  in  trade,  and  willingly  employed 
me  as  a  clerk,  occasionally  despatching  me  from  home  to 
transact  business  at  a  distance.  My  duties  being  regular 
and  profitable,  we  were  soon  raised  above  want,  and  1  was 
enabled  to  place  my  young  wife  in  a  situation  of  comfort. 

"The  sweetness  of  her  disposition,  the  cheerfulness  with 
which  she  endured  privation,  the  earnestness  with  which 
she  strove  to  make  me  happv,  were  not  without  effect.  I 
perseveringly  rallied  From  my  gloom;  I  succeeded  in  ban- 
ishing the  frown  From  mv  brow;  and  the  premature 
wrinkles,  which  her  hand  would  softly  sweep  away,  finally 
The  few  months  that  I  passed  with  your 
form  a  sweet  episode  in  the  memory  of 
came  to  love  her  much — not  as  I  loved 
not  be  expected — but.  as  the  solitary 
o\V'-r  that  bloomed  on  the  ^rave  of  all  my  early  hopes 
she  cast  a  fragrance  round  my  path;  and  her  child  is  no' 
more  dear  to  me,  because  ;l  |l;u-t,  ,,f  myself,  than  as  tic 
memento  of  the  cherished  blossom  snatched  hastily  fron 
mv  hand  and  rudely  ci  n-hed. 

• '  About  t  wo  months  a  Her  vour  birt  h,  my  child,  and  before 

your  eyes   Irid  ever  learned  to  brighten  at  the  si^ht  of  your 

F.iliitT.  \\iio  wa~  necessarily  much   from  home,  the  business. 

i   was    engaged    called    me    in    the    capacity  of  an 

Hg<-nt   to  a  -tat. on   some  distance   from   Kio.     ,1  had  been 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  339 

absent  nearly  ;i  mont-fi,  and  luul  written  regularly  to  Lucy, 
informing  her  of  all  my  movements  (though  1  suspect  the 
letters  never  reached  her),  when  the  neighbourhood  in 
which  1  was  stationed  became  infected  with  a  fatal  mala- 
ria. For  the  sake  of  my  family  1  fo:,k  cverv  measure  to 
ward  off  contagion,  but  failed.  J  was  seized  with  fever, 
and  lay  for  weeks  near  death.  1  was  cruelly  neglected 
during  my  illness :  fur  I  had  no  friends  near  me,  and  my 
slender  purse  held  out  little  inducement  for  mercenary  ser- 
vice; but  my  MifiVrings  and  forebodings  on  account  ot 
Lucy  and  yourself  were  fur  greater  than  any  which  I  en- 
dured from  my  bodily  torments,  a't  hough  the  latter  were 
great.  I  had  ail  sorts  of  imaginary  fears:  but  nothing, 
alas  !  which  could  compare  with  the  reality  that  awaited 
me  when,  after  my  dreadful  illness.  1  made  my  way,  desti- 
tute, ragged,  and  emaciated,  back  to  Kio.  I  sought  my 
former  home.  It  was  deserted,  ami  I  was  warned  to  flee 
from  its  vicinity,  as  the  fearful  disease  of  fever  had  nearly 
depopulated  that  and  the  neighbouring  streets.  J  made 
every  inquiry,  but  could  obtain  no  intelligence  of  my  wife 
and  child,  1  hastened  to  the  charnel-house  where,  during 
the  raging  of  the  pestilence,  the  unrecognized  dead  were 
exposed:  but  among  the  disfigured  remains  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  distinguish  friends  from  strangers.  I  lingered 
about  the  city  for  weeks  in  hopes  to  gain  Mjme  information 
concerning  Lucy:  but  could  find  no  one  who  had  ever 
heard  of  her.  All  dav  J  \\andered  about,  the  streets  and 
on  the  wharves— the  latter  being  places  u  Inch  .l>cn  (I rant 
(in  whose  faithful  charge1  1  had  left  your  mother  and  your- 
self) was  in  the  habit  of  frequenting — but  not  a  syllable 
could  I  learn  of  any  persons  that  answered  my  description. 
"My  first  thought  had  been  that  they  would  naturally 
seek  my  employe]',  to  learn,  if  possible,  the  cause  of  my 
prolonged  absence  ;  and  on  rinding  my  home  emptv  I  had 
hastened  in  search  of  him.  But  he  too  had,  within  a  re- 
cent period,  fallen  a  victim  to  the  prevailing  distemper. 
His  place  of  business  was  closed  and  the  establishment 
broken  up.  I  continued  mv  inquiries  until  hope  died 
within  me.  I  was  told  that  scarce  an  inmate  of  the  fatal 
neighbourhood  where  [  had  left  mv  family  had  escaped:  and 
convinced,  lii.aHv.  that  mv  fate  was  ,-ti'l  pui'.-uinfr  me  with 
an  unmitigated  wrath,  of  which  this  last  blow  was  but  a 
single  expression.,  that  1  might  have  foreseen  and  expected. 


40  THE 


I  madlv  agreed  to  work  my  pa-sage  in  the  first  vessel  which 
promised  ill'1  ;ui  escape  fr<>m  set-lies  so  fraught  with  liar- 
rowing  recollect,  OILS. 

•'Ami  now  commenced  :i  course  of  wretched  wandering. 
With  varied  ends  in  view,  f«lin\\  ing  strongly  contrasted 
employments,  and  with  fluctuating  fortune,  1  have  travelled 
over  the  world.  A;v  feet  iiave  trodden  almost  every  land, 
1  have  sailed  on  every  sea  and  breathed  the  air  of  every 
(dime,  1  am  familiar  with  the  citv  and  the  wilderness, 
t  he  civilized  man  and  tin-  savage.  1  have  learned  the  sad 
lesson  that-  peace  it-  nowhere,  and  friendship,  for  the  most 
part,  hut  a  name. 

"Oner  during  my  wanderings  T  visited  the  home  of  mv 
boyhood.  Unseen  and  unknown  I  trod  a  Familiar  ground 
and  ira/ed  on  fain.  liar,  ihoituh  time  worn  faces.  1  stood 
at  the  window  of  Mr.  Graham's  library  :  saw  the  contented, 
happy  countenance  of  Kmilv  happy  in  her  blindness  and 
her  forget  fulness  of  the  past.  A  young  girl  sat  near  tho 
fire  endeavouring  to  read  by  its  flickering  light.  1  knew 
not.  then  what  gave  such  a  charm  to  her  thoughtful 
features,  nor  whv  mv  eves  dwelt  upon  them  with  a  rare 
pleasure;  for  there  was  no  voice  to  procl.iim  to  the  father's 
heart  that  he  looked  on  I  lie  |'a<  e  of  his  ch:ld.  I  am  not 
sure  that  the  strong  impulse  which  prompted  me  then  to 
enter,  acknowledge  my  identitv,  and  beg  Kmilv  to  speak 
to  me  a  word  of  forgiveness,  miu'ht  no!  have  prevailed  over 
the  dread  of  her  displeasure;  hut;  Mr.  (Iraham  at  tin- 
moment  appeared,  cold  ami  implacable  as  ever;  I  gaxed 
an  instant,  then  fled  from  the  house. 

''Although  in  tip-  varioa-  labours  which  \  was  compelled 
to  nmh-rtake  to  earn  a  decent,  maintenance,  1  had  more 
than  once  mei  with  such  success  as  to  <_;ive  me  tem  pora  rv 


travelling,  I  had    never  amassed   a    fortune:   indeed,  1    had 

ii"t  cared  to  do  so,  since  1   had   no  use  for  monev,  except  to 

employ  it  in  the  gratification  of  mv  immediate  wants.      Ac- 

t,  however,  a!    last    thrust    upon    me  a  wealth  which  I 

•  I   scarce!  v  be  said   to  have  si  'tr:h  t. 

'•  After  ti  year  spent  in  the  wiiderne-s  of  the  west,  amid 

'  II  re-    the     ivla  '  i'  •'  A  1     c||      In    W    \\  o  I  d  d      -erm     to    VoH 

'I'C'I  ;  ble.    I    -  ;    .  •     .  .     |,t  iilllei]      III  \     1'e  I  reat    aci'OSS 

tin     countrv,   atid    aft'-r   ci.c.innteriiiL.'1    iuiiumcrabh:   hard 
ships,  which  had    1^0   oliier   object  tiian   the   imlulgence  of 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  341 

my  vagrant  habits,  I  found  myself  in  that  land  which  has 
recently  been  termed  the  land  of  promise,  but  which  has 
proved  to  many  a  greedy  emigrant  a  land  of  deceit.  For 
me,  however,  who  sought  it  not.  it  showered  gold.  I  was 
among  the  earliest  discoverers  of  its  treasure-vaults — one 
of  the  most  successful,  though  the  least  laborious,  of  the 
seekers  after  gain.  Nor  v\as  it  merely,  or  indeed  chiefly, 
at  the  mines  that  fortune  favoured  me.  AVith  the  first  re- 
sults of  my  labours  I  purchased  an  immense  tract  of  land, 
little  dreaming  at  the  time  that  those  d<  sert  acres  were 
destined  to  become  the  streets  and  squares  of  a  great  and 
prosperous  city.  So  that  without  effort,  almost  without 
my  own  knowledge.  I  achieved  the  greatness  which  springs 
from  untold  wealth.  But  tins  was  not  all.  The  blessed 
accident  which  led  me  to  this  golden  land  was  the  means 
of  disclosing  a  pearl  of  price — a  treasure  in  comparison 
with  which  California  and  all  its  mines  shrink,  to  my  mind, 
into  insignificance.  You  know  how  the  war-cry  went  forth 
to  all  lands,  and  men  of  every  name  and  nation  brought 
their  arms  to  the  field  of  fortune.  Famine  came  next, 
with  disease  and  death  in  its  train  ;  and  many  a  man, 
hurrving  on  to  reap  the  golden  harvest,  fell  by  the  way- 
side, without  once  seeing  the  waving  of  the  yellow  grain. 

"  Half  scorning  the  greedy  rabble,  1  could  not  refuse  in 
this,  my  time  of  prosperity,  to  minister  to  the  wants  of 
such  as  fell  in  the  way:  and  now  for  once  my  humanity 
found  its  own  reward.  A  mi.-erablc,  ragged,  half-starved, 
and  apparently  dying  man  crept  to  the  door  of  my  tent 
and  asked  in  a  feeble  voice  for  charity.  1  did  not  refuse 
to  admit  him  into  my  narrow  domicile  and  to  relieve  his 
sufferings.  He  was  the  victim  of  want  rather  than  disease, 
and,  his  hunger  appeased,  the  savau'e  brutality  of  his  coarse 
nature  soon  manifested  itself  in  the  dogged  indifference 
with  which  he  received  a  .-Granger's  bounty  and  the  gross 
ingratitude  with  which  he  abu.-ed  my  hospitality.  A  few 
davs  served  to  restore  him  to  his  strength;  and  then, 
anxious  to  dismiss  my  visitor,  whose  cmiduet  had  already 
excited  suspicions  of  his  i_rood  faith.  I  gave  him  warning 
that  he  must  depart:  at  the  s.ame  time  placing  in  his  hand 
a  suiliciont  amount  of  gold  to  insure  his  support  until 
he  could  reach  the  mines  which  were  his  professed  desti- 
nation. 

'•  lie  appeared  dissatisfied,  and  begged  permission  t<r  r^ 


34:2  TIIK  LAtfPL 

main  until  the  next  morning,  us  the  night  was  near,  and 
he  had  no  shelter  provided.  To  this  I  made  no  objection, 
little  imagining  lio\v  base  a  serpent  I  was  harbouring. 
At  midniyht  I  was  awakened  from  my  light  and  easily- 
disturbed  sleep  to  find  my  lodger  bu.-ily  engaged  in  rifling 
my  property  ami  preparing  to  take  an  unceremonious  leave 
of  my  dwelling.  Nor  did  his  villainy  end  here.  Upon 
;nv  seizing  and  charging  him  with  the  theft,  lie  snatched 
a  weapon  and  attempted  the  life  of  his  benefactor.  Hut 
i  was  prepared  to  ward  off  the  stroke,  and  succeeded  in  a- 
few  moments  in  subduing  my  desperate  antagonist,  lie 
now  crouched  at  mv  feet  in  such  abject  submission  as 
might  be  expected  from  so  vile  a  knave.  Well  might  ho 
tremble  with  fear  ;  for  the  Lyneh-law  was  then  in  full 
force  for  criminals  like  him.  I  should  probably  havo 
handed  the  traitor  over  to  his  fate;  but,  ere  1  had  time  to 
do  so,  he  held  out  to  my  cupidity  a  bribe  so  tempting  that 
I  forgot  the  deservings  of  my  knavish  guest  in  the  eager- 
7iess  with  which  I  bartered  his  freedom  as  the  price  of  its 
possession. 

'•  He  freely  emptied  his  pockets  at  my  bidding,  and  re- 
stored to  me  the  gold,  for  the  loss  of  which  I  never  should 
have  repined.  As  the  base  metal  rolled  at  my  feet,  there 
glittered  among  the  coins  a  jewel  as  trulv  //lino  as  any  of 
the  rest,  but  which,  as  it  met  my  sight,  filled  me  with 
greater  surprise  than  if  it  had  been  a  new-fallen  star. 

"  It  was  a  ring  of  peculiar  design  and  workmanship, 
which  had  once  been  the  propeity  of  my  father,  and  after 
his  death  had  been  worn  by  my  mother  mud  the  time  of 
her  marriage  with  Mr.  (Jraham,  when  it  was  transferred  to 
iiiys'-lf.  1  had  ever  prized  it  as  a  precious  heirloom,  and 
it  was  one  of  the  few  valuables  which  I  took  wi''i  me  when 
1  ll"d  from  my  step-father's  house.  This  ring,  with  n 
watch  and  some  other  trinkets,  had  been  Icl't  ill  the  posses- 
sion oi  Lucy  when  1  parted  with  her  at  Rio,  and  the  sight 
of  it  onee  more  S'-em.'d  to  me  like  a  voice  from  the  grave. 
I  ea!_rer!v  souirht  to  learn  from  mv  prisoner  the  source 
wh'-nce  it  had  been  obtained,  but  ho  maintained  an  obsti- 
nate siience.  It  was  now  mv  turn  to  plead;  and  at  length 
the  promise  of  instant  permission  to  depart,  'unwhipped 
by  jnstic<-/  at  the  conclusion  of  his  tale,  wrung  from  him  a 
Secret  fraught  to  me  with  V:tal  interest. 

"This  man  was  Stephen  Grant,  the  soil  of  my  old  i'rieiiJ 


THK  f.AJdPlJOHTER.  343 

Ben.  He  had  heard  from  his  father's  lips  the  story  of  yom 
mother's  misfortunes  ;  and  the  circumstance  of  a  violent 
quarrel  which  arose  between  Ben  and  his  vixen  wife  at  the 
young  stranger's  introduction  to  their  household  impressed 
the  tale  upon  his  recollection.  From  his  account  it  ap< 
peared  that  my  long-continued  absence  from  Lucy,  during 
.he.  time  of  my  illness,  was  construed  by  her  honest  but  dis- 
crustful  counsellor  and  friend  into  cruel  desertion.  The 
pooi-  girl,  to  whom  my  early  life  was  all  a  mystery  which 
she  had  never  shared,  and  to  whom  much  of  my  character 
and  conduct  was  inexplicable,  began  soon  to  feel  convinced 
of  the  correctness  of  the  old  sailor's  suspicions  and  fears. 
She  had  already  applied  to  rny  employer  for  information 
concerning  me;  but  he,  who  had  heard  of  the  pestilence 
to  which  1  was  exposed,  and  fully  believed  me  to  be  among 
the  dead,  forbore  to  distress  her  by  a  communication  of  his 
"belief,  and  replied  to  her  questionings  with  an  obscurity 
which  served  to  give  new  force  to  her  hitherto  uncertain 
surmises.  She  positively  refused,  however,  to  leave  our 
home;  and,  clinging  to  the  hope  of  my  final  return  thither, 
/emained  where  1  had  left  her  until  the  terrible  fever 
began  its  ravages.  Her  small  stock  of  money  was  by  this 
time  consumed;  her  strength  both  of  mind  and  body  gave 
way;  and  Ben,  becoming  every  day  more  confident  that  the 
simple-hearted  Lucy  hud  been  betrayed  and  forsaken,  per- 
suaded her  at  last  to  sell  her  furniture,  and  with  the  sum 
thus  raised  flee  the  infected  country  before  it  should  be 
too  late.  She  sailed  for  Boston  in  the  same  vessel  in 
which  Ben  shipped  before  the  mast  ;  and  on  reaching 
£hat  port  her  humble  protector  took  her  to  the  only 
home  he  had  to  offer. 

"There  your  mother's  sad  fate  found  a  mournful  ter- 
mination; and  you,  her  infant  child,  were  left  to  the 
mercy  of  the  cruel  woman  who,  but  for  consciousness  of 
guilt  and  her  fear  of  its  betrayal,  would  doubtless  have 
thrust  you  at  once  from  the  miserable  shelter  her  dwell- 
ing afforded.  This  guilt  consisted  in  a  fonl  robbery 
committed  by  Nan  and  her  infamous  son  upon  your  in- 
nocent mother,  now  rendered,  through  her  feebleness. 
un  easy  prey  to  their  rapacity.  The  fruits  of  this  vile 
theft,  however,  were  not  participated  in  by  Nan,  whose 
promising  son  so  far  exceeded  her  in  duplicity  and  craft 
that,  having  obtained  possession  of  the  jewels  for  tlit. 


341  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

allowed  purpose  of  bartering  them  away,  lie  reserved  such 
us  he  thought,  proper,  and  appropriated  to  his  own  us,e 
the  proceeds  of  the  remainder. 

"The  antique  ring  which  I  no\v  liold  in  rny  posses- 
sion, the  priceless  relic  of  a  mournful  tragedy,  would 
have  shared  the  fate  of  the  rest  but  for  its  apparent 
\vorthlessness.  To  the  luckless  Stephen,  however,  it  proved 
at  la-t  a  temporary  salvation  from  the.  felon's  doom  which 
must  finally  await  that  hardened  sinner;  and  to  me — ah! 
to  mr — it  remains  to  be  proved  whether  the  knowledge 
of  the  secrets  to  which  it  has  been  the  key  will  bless 
mv  future  life  or  darken  it,  with  a  heavier  curse!  Not- 
withstanding the  information  thus  gained,  and  the  ex- 
citing idea  to  which  it  gave  rise,  that  my  child  might 
be  still  living  and  linally  restored  to  me,  I  could  not 
yet  feel  any  security  that  these  daring  hopes  were  not 
destined  to  be  crushed  in  their  infancy,  and  that  my 
iiewlv-found  treasure  might  not  again  elude  my  eager 
search.  To  my  inquiries  concerning  you,  (iertrude, 
Stephen,  who  had  no  longer  any  motives  for  concealing 
the  truth,  declared  his  inability  to  acquaint  me  with  anv 
particulars  of  a  later  period  than  the  time  of  your  resi- 
dence with  Trueman  Flint.  I!e  knew  that  the  lamplighter 
had  taken  vou  to  his  home,  and  was  accidentally  made 
aware,  a  few  months  later,  of  your  continuance  in  that 
place  of  refuge  from  the  old  man's  being  such  a  fool  as  to 
call  upon  his  mother  and  voluntarily  make  compensation 
fur  the  iinurv  done  to  her  windows  in  vour  outburst  of 


learn  nothing  more ;  but  it  Avas  enough  to  in- 
spire all  mv  energies  to  recover  my  child.  1  hastened  to 
Boston,  hail  no  d,ili<'i;;ty  in  tracing  your  benefactor,  ami. 
though  he  had  been  long  dead,  found  manv  a  truthful 
tvitnc"  to  his  well-known  virtues.  Nor,  when  I  asked  for 
his  adopted  child,  did  1  lind  h'T  forgotten  in  the  quarter 
of  theeity  where  she  had  passed  her  childhood.  .More  than 
one  grateful  voice  was  ready  to  respond  to  mv  questioning, 
and  to  proclaim  the  cause  thev  had  to  remember  the  girl 
who,  having  experienced  the  trials  of  poverty,  made  it 
both  her  dntv  and  lid'  pleasure  of  prosperity  to  administer 
to  the  wants  of  a  neighbourhood  whose  sufferings  she  had 
aforetime  both  witnessed  ami  shared.  But,  alas!  to  com- 
tiie  sum  of  ,sad  vicissitudes  with  which  my  unhappy 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  845 

destiny  was  already  crowded,  at  the  moment  when  1  waa 
assured  of  my  daughter's  safety,  and  my  ears  were  greeted 
with  the  sweet  praises  that  accompanied  the  mention  of 
her  name,  there  i'eil  upon  me  like  a  thunderbolt  the  start- 
ling words,  '  She  is  now  the  adopted  child  of  sweet  Emily 
Graham,  the  blind  girl.' 

"'Oh,  strange  coincidence!  Oh,  righteous  retribution! 
which,  at  the  very  moment  when  I  was  picturing  to  myself 
the  consummation  of  my  cherished  hopes,  crushed  me  once 
more  beneath  the  iron  hand  of  a  destiny  that  would  not  be 
cheated  of  its  victim!  My  child,  my  only  child,  bound  by 
the  gratitude  and  love  of  years  to  one  in  whose  face  I 
scarcely  dared  to  look,  lest  my  soul  should  be  withered  by 
the  expression  of  condemnation  which  the  consciousness  of 
my  presence  would  inspire! 

"  The  seas  and  lands  which  had  hitherto  divided  us 
seemed  not,  to  my  tortured  fancy,  so  insurmountable  a 
barrier  between  myself  and  my  long-lost  daughter  as  the 
dreadful  reflection  that  the  only  earthly  being  whose  love  I 
had  hoped  in  time  to  win  had  been  reared  from  her  infancy 
in  a  household  where  my  name  was  a  thing  abhorred. 

"Stung  to  the  quick  by  the  harrowing  thought  that  all 
my  prayers,  entreaties,  and  explanations  could  never  undo 
her  early  impressions,  and  that  all  my  labours  and  all  my 
love  could  never  call  forth  other  than  a  cold  and  formal 
recognition  of  my  claims,  I  half  resolved  to  leave  my  child 
in  ignorance  of  her  birth  and  never  seek  to  look  upon 
her  i'ace,  rather  than  subject  her  to  the  terrible  necessity 
of  choosing  between  the  friend  whom  she  loved  and  the 
father  fVmi  whose  crimes  she  had  learned  to  shrink  with 
horror  and  dread.  After  struggling  long  with  contending 
emotions,  I  resolved  to  make  one  effort  to  see  and  rec- 
ognize you,  Gertrude,  and  at  the  same  time  guard  my- 
self from  discovery.  I  trusted  to  the  change  which  time 
had  wrought  in  my  appearance  to  conceal  me  elTeetually 
from  all  eyes  but  those  which  had  known  me  intimately, 
and  therefore  approached  Mr.  Graham's  house  without 
the  slightest  fear  of  betrayal.  I  found  it  empty  and  ap- 
parently deserted. 

"  1  now  directed  my  steps  to  the  well -remembered  count- 
ing-house, and  here  learned  from  I  he  clerk  that  the  whole 
household,  including  your/elf,  had  been  passing  the  winter 
in  1'aris,  and  were  at  present  at  a  German  watering-place, 


340  TTJK  LAMPL. 

Without  further  inquiry  I  took  the  steamer  to  Liverpool 
thence  hastened  to  Baden  Baden — a  trilling  excursion  in 
the  eyes  of  a  traveller  of  my  experience.  Without  risking 
myself  in  the  presence  of  my  step-father,  1  took  an  early 
opportunity  to  obtain  an  introduction  to  Mrs.  Graham, 
and,  thanks  to  her  unreserved  conversation,  learned  that 
Emily  and  yourself  were  left  in  Boston,  and  were  undei 
•;ne  care  of  Dr.  Jeremy. 

'•'  On  my  return  voyage,  immediately  undertaken,  I  made 
the  acquaintance  of  Dr.  Gryseworth  and  his  daughter— 
an  acquaintance  which  proved  of  great  value  in  facili- 
tating my  intercourse  with  yourself.  Once  more  arrived  in 
Boston,  Dr.  Jeremy's  house  looked  as  if  closed  for  the  sea* 
son.  A  man  making  some  repairs  about  the  door-step  in- 
formed me  that  the  family  were  absent  from  town.  Ha 
was  not  aware  of  the  direction  they  had  taken,  but  the  ser- 
vants were  at  home  and  might  acquaint  me  with  their  route. 
Upon  tins  I  boldly  rung  the  door-bell.  It  \vas  answered  by 
Mrs.  Ellis,  who  nearly  twenty  years  ago  had  cruelly  sounded 
in  my  ears  the  death-knell  of  all  my  hopes  in  life.  I  saw 
that  my  incognito  was  secure,  as  she  met  my  piercing  glance 
without  sin-inking  or  taking  flight,  as  I  fully  expected  she 
would  do  at  sight  of  the  ghost  of  my  former  self. 

"  She  replied  to  my  queries  as  coolly  as  she  had  done  dur- 
ing the  day  to  some  dozen  of  the  doctor's  disappointed  pa- 
tients—telling me  that  he  had  left  that  morning  for  New 
York,  and  would  not  be  back  for  two  or  three  weeks.  Noth- 
ing could  have  been  more  favourable  to  my  wishes  thiin  the 
chance  thus  afforded  of  overtaking  your  party  and,  as  a 
travelling  companion,  introducing  myself  gradually  to  your 
notice. 

"  You  know  how  this  purpose  was  effected;  how,  now  in  the 
rear,  und  now  in  advance,  I  nevertheless  maintained  a  con- 
stant proximity  to  your  footsteps.  To  add  to  the  comfort 
of  yourself  and  Kmilv,  to  learn  your  plans,  forestall  vour 
wishes,  secure  to  your  use  the  best  of  rooms,  and  bribe  to 
your  service  the  most  devoted  of  attendants — I  spaied 
neither  pains,  trouble,  nor  expense.  For  much  of  the  free- 
dom with  which  I  approached  you  and  made  myself  an 
occasional  member  of  your  circle,  1  was  indebted  to  Kmily's 
blindness;  for  I  could  not  doubt  that  otherwise  time  and 
its  changes  would  fail  to  conceal  from  her  my  identity,  and 
I  should  meet  with  a  prenmturw  "ccognitiou.  Xor  until 


THK  LAMPLIGHTER.  8-1? 

the  final  act  of  the  drama,  when  death  stared  us  all  in  the 
face,  and  coiiceulineut  became  impossible,  did  1  once  trust 
my  voice  to  her  hearing. 

"How  closely,  during'  those  few  weeks,  I  watched  and 
weighed  your  every  word  and  action,  seeking  even  to  read 
your  thoughts  in  your  face,  none  can  tell  whose  aeuteness 
u  not  sharpened  and  vivitied  by  motives  so  all-engrossing 
:ts  mine;  and  who  can  measure  the  anguish  of  the  fond 
father  who  day  by  day  learned  to  worship  his  child  with  a 
more  absorbing  idolatry,  and  yet  dared  not  clasp  her  to  his 
heart? 

"  Especially  when  I  saw  you  the  victim  of  grief  and 
trouble  did  I  long  to  assert  a  claim  to  your  confidence;  and 
more  than  once  my  self-control  would  have  given  way  but 
for  the  dread  inspired  by  the  gentle  Emily — gentle  to  all 
but  me.  I  could  not  brook  the  thought  that  with  my  con- 
fession I  should  cease  to  be  the  trusted  friend  and  become 
the  abhorred  parent.  I  preferred  to  maintain  rny  distant 
and  unacknowledged  guardianship  of  my  child  rather  than 
that  she  should  behold  in  me  the  dreaded  tyrant  who  might 
tear  her  from  the  home  from  which  ho  himself  had  been 
driven. 

"  And  so  I  kept  silent;  and  sometimes  present  to  your 
sight.,  but  still  ol'tener  hid  from  view,  I  hovered  around 
your  path  until  that  dreadful  day,  which  you  will  long  re- 
member, when,  everything  forgotten  but  the  safety  of 
yourself  and  Emily,  my  heart  spoke  out  and  betrayed  my 
secret.  And  now  you  know  all — my  follies,  misfortunes, 
sufferings,  and  sins! 

"  Can  you  love  me,  Gertrude  ?  It  is  all  I  ask.  I  seek 
not  to  steal  you  from  your  present  home — to  rob  poor  Emily 
cf  a  child  whom  she  values  perhaps  as  much  as  1.  The  only 
ibalm  my  wounded  spirit  seeks  is  the  simple,  guileless  con- 
fession that  you  will  at  least  try  to  love  your  father. 

"1  have  no  hope  in  this  world,  ami  none,  alas!  beyond, 
but  in  yourself.  Could  you  feel  my  heart  now  beating 
against  its  prison  bars,  you  would  realize,  as  I  do,  that  un- 
less soothed  it  will  burst  ere  long.  AY  ill  you  soothe  it  by 
your  pity,  my  sweet,  my  darling  child?  Will  you  bless  it 
by  your  love  ?  If  so,  come,  clasp  your  arms  around  me, 
and  whisper  to  me  words  of  peace.  Within  sight  of  you* 
window,  in  the  old  summer-house  at  the  end  of  the  gardes, 
with  straining  ear,  I  wait  listening  for  your  footsteps," 


THK  LA 


CHAPTER   XL VI. 

Tin:    REUNION. 

i 

As  OERTHUDK'S  eyes,  after  greedily  devouring  the  rnann* 
script,  1'ell  upon  its  closing  words  she  sprang  to  her  feet, 
and  the  next  instant  she  has  run  down  the  staircase,  run 
out  of  the  hall  door,  and  approached  the1  summer-house 
from  the  opposite  entrance  to  that  at  which  Mr.  Amorv, 
with  folded  arms  and  a  tixed  countenance,  is  watching  for 
her  coming. 

So  noiseless  is  her  light  step,  that  before  lie  is  conscious 
of  her  presence,  she  lias  thrown  herself  upon  his  bosom 
and,  her  whole  frame  trembling  with  the  vehemence  of 
long-suppressed  agitation,  burst  into  a  torrent  of  passion- 
ate tears,  interrupted  only  by  frequent  sobs,  so  deep  and  so 
exhausting  that  her  father,  with  his  arms  folded  around 
her.  and  clasping  her  so  closely  to  his  heart  that  she 
feels  its  irregular  beating,  endeavours  to  still  the  tem- 
pest of  her  grief,  whispering  softly,  as  to  an  infant,  "Hush  I 
hush,  my  child  !  you  frighten  me!" 

And,  gradually  soothed  by  his  gentle  caresses,  her  excite- 
ment subsides,  and  she  is  able  to  lift  her  face  to  his  and 
smile  upon  him  through  her  tears.  They  stand  thus  for 
nianv  minutes  in  a  silence  that  speaks  far  more  than  words. 
Wrapped  in  the  folds  of  his  heavy  cloak  to  preserve  her 
from  the  evening  air,  and  still  encircled  in  his  strong  etn- 
bra'-e.  (Jertrude  feels  that  their  union  of  spirit,  is  not  les.s 
Complete;  while  the  long-banished  man.  who  for  years  has. 
never  felt  ihe  sweet  influence  of  a  kindly  smile,  glows  with 
a  melting  tenderness  which  hardening  solitude  has  not  the 
power  to  subdue.  At  length  Mr.  Amory.  lifting  his  daugh- 
ter'- lV.ee  ;md  gaxing  into  her  glistening  evep.  while  he 
,  strokes  the  disordered  hair  from  her  forehead,  asks, 
in  an  accent  of  touching  appeal,  "  YOU  will  love  me,  then  '?  " 

"Oh,  I  do!  I  do!  "  exclaimed  (lertrude,  sealing  his  lips 
M  •  kisses.  His  hitherto  unmoved  countenance  relaxes  at 
Ih  s  fervent  a-surance.  He  bows  his  head  upon  her  shoul- 
der, and  the  strong  man  weeps.  Her  self-possession  all 
restored  at  seeing  him  thus  overcome,  (Jertrude  places  her 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  349 

hand  in  his,  and  startles  him  from  his  position  by  tlio  firm 
and  decided  tone  with  which  she  whispers,  "  Come!" 

''Whither?"  exclaims  he,  looking  up  in  surprise. 

"To  Emily." 

With  a  hail'  shudder  and  a  mournful  shake  of  the  headj 
he  retreats  insteadof  advancing  in  the  direction  in  which  she 
would  lead  him — "  I  cannot." 

"  But  she  waits  for  yon;  she,  too,  weeps  and  longs  anc 
pnns  for  your  coming." 

"  Kiuilv! — you  know  not  what  you  arc  saving!  " 

"  Indeed,  my  father;  it  is  you  who  are  deceived.  Emily 
does  not  hate  you ;  she  never  did.  She  believed  you  de;id 
long  ago;  hut  your  voice,  though  heard  hut  once,  has  half 
robbed  her  of  her  reason  so  entirely  does  she  love  you  still. 
Come,  and  she  will  tell  you,  better  than  1  can.  what  8 
wretched  mistake  has  marie  martyrs  of  you  both." 

Kmilv.  who  had  heard  the  voice  of  Willie  Sullivan,  as  he 
bade  (Jertrude  farewell  on  the  door-step,  and  rightly  con- 
jectured that  it  was  lie,  forbore  making  any  inquiries  for 
the  absent  girl  at  the  tea-table,  and  thinking  it  probable 
that  she  preferred  to  remain  undisturbed,  retired  to  the  sit- 
ting-room at  the  conclusion  of  the  meal,  where  (as  ^\Ir 
Graham  sought  the  library)  she  remained  alone  for  more 
than  an  hour. 

The  refined  taste  which  always  made  Emily's  dress  an 
index  to  the  soft  purity  of  her  character  was  never  more 
strikingly  developed  than  when  she  wore,  as  on  the  present 
occasion,  a  flowing  robe  of  white  cashmere,  fastened  at  the 
waist  with  a  silken  girdle,  and  with  full  drapery  sleeves. 
whose  lining  and  border  of  snowy  silk  could  only  have  been 
rivalled  by  the  delicate  hand  and  wrist  which  had  escaped 
from  beneath  their  folds,  and  somewhat  nervously  played 
with  the  crimson  fringe  of  a  shawl,  worn  in  the  chilly  din 
ing-room,  and  thrown  careless! y  over  the  arm  of  the  sofa 
Supporting  herself  upon  her  elbow,  she  sat  with  her  head 
bent  forward,  and  apparently  deep  in  thought.  Once  .M  rs. 
Prime  opened  the  door,  looked  around  the  room  in  search 
of  the  housekeeper,  and,  not  lindiu""  her,  retreated,  sa\inc 

1  O 

to  herself,  "  Law!  dear  sake,-  alive!     1   wish   she  only  had 
eves  uow,  to  see  how  like  ;i  pii'trr  she  look.-' 

Alow,  (jiuck  bark  !'ro;n  tin-  house-dug  a!!r;tetrd  her  ;it- 
tention,  and  steps  were  heard  crossing  the  piazza,  lie  fore 
they  had  gained  the  door,  Emily  was.  standing  upright, 


850  -///A'  LAMPLIGHTER. 

straining  her  oar  to  catch  the  sound  of  every  footfall;  and, 
when  Gertrude  and  Mr.  Amory  entered,  she  looked  more 
like  a  statue  tiian  a  living  figure,  as  with  clasped  hands, 
parted  lips,  and  one  foot  slightly  advanced,  she  silently 
awaited  their  approach.  One  glance  at  Emily's  face,  an- 
other nt  that  of  her  agitated  father,  and  Gertrude  was 
gone.  She  saw  the  completeness  of  their  mutual  recogui 
tion,  and  with  instinctive  delicacv,  forbore  to  mar  by  he: 
presence  the  sacred  ness  of  so  holy  an  interview.  As  thr 
door  closed  upon  her  retreating  figure,  Emily  parted  he' 
clasped  hands,  stretched  them  forth  into  the  dim  vacanc\T, 
and  murmured,  "  Philip!  '' 

lie  seized  them  between  both  of  his,  and,  with  one  step 
forward,  fell  upon  his  knees.  As  he  did  so,  the  half- 
fainting  Emily  dropped  upon  the  seat.  Mr.  Amory  bowed 
his  head  upon  the  hands  which,  still  held  tightlv  between 
his  own.  now  rested  on  her  lap,  and.  hiding  his  face  upon 
her  slender  II Hirers,  tremblingly  uttered  her  name. 

"The  grave  has  given  up  its  dead !"  exclaimed  Emily. 
"My  God,  I  thank  thee!"  and  she  Hung  her  arms  around 
his  neck,  rested  her  head  upon  his  bosom,  and  whispered, 
iu  a  voice  half  choked  with  emotion.  "  Philip! — dear,  dear 
Philip!  am  T  dreaming,  or  have  you  come  baek  again  ?" 

She  and  Philip  had  loved  each  other  in  their  childhood; 
before  that  childhood  was  passed  they  had  parted;  and  as 
children  they  met  again.  During  the  lapse  of  many  years 
she  had  lived  among  the  cherished  memories  of  the  past. 
siie  had  been  safe  from  worldly  contagion,  and  had  retained 
all  the  guileless  simplicity  of  girlhood— all  the  freshness  of 
her  spring-time;  and  Philip,  who  had  never  willingly 
l)ound  himself  by  anv  ties  save  those  imposed  upon  him  by 
necessity,  felt  his  boyhood  come  rushing  upon  him.  as, 
with  Emily's  soft  hand  restinir  on  his  head,  she  blessed 
Heaven  fur  li.s  safe  return.  She  could  nut  see  how  ti:: 
had  silvered  his  hair  and  ,-obered  and  shaded  the  face  tna  j 
she  loved. 

A nd  to  him,  a- 
t< 


Miilip    had 
T  hope.-,  her  fears. 


LAMPLIGHTER.  351 


her  prayers,  and  her  despair;  and  she,  while  listening  to 
the  sad  incidents  of  his  iife,  had  dropped  upon  the  hand 
she  held  many  a  kiss  and  tear  of  sympathy,  did  either  fully 
realise  the  mercy  so  long  delayed,  so  fully  accorded  now, 
which  promised  even  on  earth  to  crown  their  days. 

Emily  wept  at  the  tale  of  Lucy's  trials  and  her  early 
death,  and  when  she  learned  that  it  was  hers  and  Philip's 
child  whom  she  had  taken  to  her  heart,  and  fostered  with 
the  truest  affection,  she  sent  up  her  silent  praise  that  it  hat  ; 
been  allotted  to  her  apparently  bereaved  and  darkened 
destiny  to  fulfil  so  blessed  a  mission.  "If  I  could  love  her 
more,  dear  Philip,"  said  she,  while  the  tears  trickled  down 
her  cheeks,  "  I  would  do  so,  for  your  sake,  and  that  of  her 
sweet,  innocent,  suffering  mother." 

"And  yon  forgive  me,  then,  Emily?"  said  Philip,  as 
both  having  finished  their  sad  recitals  of  the  past,  they 
gave  themselves  up  to  the  sweet  reflection  of  their  present 

j°y- 

"  Forgive?     Oh,  Philip!  what  have  I  to  forgive?" 

"The  deed  that  locked  yon  in  prison  darkness/'  ho 
mournfully  replied. 

"  Philip!  "  exclaimed  Emily,  "could  yon  for  one  moment 
believe  that  I  attributed  that  to  you  ?  —  that  I  blamed  you, 
for  an  instant?" 

"  Not  willingly,  I  am  sure,  dear  Emily.  But,  oh,  you 
have  forgotten  that  in  your  time  of  anguish,  not  only  the 
obtruding  thought  but  the  lip  that  gave  utterance  to  it, 
proclaimed  how  you  refused  to  forgive  the  cruel  hand  that 
wrought  you  so  much  woe!" 

"  You  cruel,  Philip!  Never  did  T  so  abuse  and  wrona 
you.  If  my  nnfilial  heart  sinfully  railed  against  the  cruel 
injustice  of  my  father,  it  was  never  guilty  of  such  treachery 
towards  you." 

"That  fiendish  woman  lied,  then,  when  she  told  me  tlu; 
you  shuddered  at  niv  verv  name?" 

''  If  I  shuddered,  Philip,  it  was  because  I  recoiled  a; 
the  thought  of  the  wrong  you  had  sustained;  and  oh,  hc- 
lieve  me,  if  she  gave  you  any  other  assurance  than  of  niv 
continued  love,  it  was  because  she  laboured  under  a  sau 
error." 

"(food  heavens!''  ejaculated  Philip;  "how  wickc.ih 
have.  I  been  <ie(  vivcd  !  '' 

"  Not  wickedly,"  replied  Emily,    "  Mrs.  Ellis  was  in  Um', 


3.V2  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

instance  the  victim  of  r>ir<  urnstanees.  She  was  a  strangei 
among  us,  ;m<l  believed  you  other  than  you  were;  but,  had 
you  seen  h"r  a  fe\v  weeks  Inter,  .-obbing  over  her  share  in  the 
unhappy  transaction  which  drove  you  to  desperation,  and 
as  we  then  supposed  to  death,  you  woukl  have  felt  that  we 
iiad  misjudged  her,  and  that  she  carried  a  heart  of  flesh  be- 
neath a  stony  disguise.  The  bitterness  of  her  grief  was 
ur.iled  with  remorse  at  the  recollection  of  her  own  harsh- 
ness. Let  us.  forget  the  sad  events  of  the  past,  and  trust 
,hat  t  he  loving  hand  which  has  thus  far  shaped  our  course 
has  but  allHcted  us  in  mercy.'' 

"  In  me  rev!'"'  exclaimed  Philip.  "What  mercy  docs  my 
pa.-,t  experience  give  evidence  of,  or  your  life  of  everlasting 
darkness  I*  ('an  voi;  believe  it  a  loving  hand  which  mado 
me  I  he  ill-fa!  ed  instrument,  and  von  t  lie  life-long  sufl'orer, 
from  one  of  the  dreariest  misfortunes  that  can  afllict 
humanity)  " 

"Speak  not  of  my  b^ndness  as  a  misfortune,"  answered 
Kmily;  •' I  have  long  ceased  to  think  it  such.  It  is  only 
through  the  darkness  of  the  night  that  we  discern  the 
lights  of  heaven,  and  only  when  shut  out  from  earth  that 
we  enter  the  gates  of  Paradise.  With  eves  to  see  the  won- 
derful working  of  nature  and  nature's  God,  I  nevertheless 
closed  them  to  the  evidences  of  Almighty  love  that  were 
around  me  on  every  side.  While  enjoying  the  beautiful 
gifts  that  were  showered  on  my  pathway,  I  forgot  to  praise 
the  (liver;  but.  with  an  ungrateful  heart,  walked  sinfully 
on,  little  dreaming  of  the  deceitful  snares  which  entangle 
the  footsteps  of  youth.  And  therefore  did  he,  who  is  ever 
over  us  for  good,  arrest  with  fatherly  hand  the  child  who 
was  wandering  from  the  road  that  leads  to  peace;  and, 
!  hough  i  he  discipline  of  his  chaste1 1 ing  rod  was  sudden  and 
•severe,  ineicv  tempered  justice.  From  the  tomb  of  my 
buried  jovs  sprang  hopes  that  will  bloom  in  immortality. 
From  the  clouds  and  the  darkness  broke  forth  a  glorious 
light.  Then  grieve  not,  dear  Philip,  over  the  fate  that  is 
far  from  sad;  but  rejoice  with  me  in  the  thought  of  that 
b!e--''d  ;nid  not  far  distant  awakening,  when,  with  re-fored 
and  beautiful  vision,  !  ^hal!  .-land  lie  fore  God's  throne,  in 
!  ii  \  i ••!',  of  t  hat  glorjoti-  Presence.  IVom  which,  but  for  I  Im 
giii>!  '  •_:  i  Liht  winch  has  biir.-t  upon  my  spirit  through  tho 
ve  i  of  earthly  darkness,  i  might  have  been  eternally  shun. 


THE  LANTU  OUTER.  355 

AP  Emily  finished  speaking,  and  "Philip,  gnzing  with  awe 
tipon  tlic  rapt  expression  of  her  soul-illumined  face,  beheld 
the  triumph  of  an  immortal  mind,  and  pondered  on  the 
might,  the  majesty,  and  power  of  the  influence  wrought  by 
simple  piety,  the  door  of  tiie  room  opened  abruptly  and 
Mr.  Graham  entered. 

The  sound  of  the  well-known  footstep  disturbed  the 
soaring  thoughts  of  both,  and  the  flush  of  excitement 
which  had  mounted  into  Emily's  cheeks  subsided  irto 
more  than  her  wonted  paleness  as  Philip,  rising  slowly 
from  her  side,  stood  fare  to  face  with  her  father. 

Mr.  Graham  approached  with  the  scrutinizing  air  of  one 
called  upon  to  greet  a  visitor  who,  though  an  apparent 
stranger,  may  possibly  have  claims  to  recognition,  and 
glanced  at  his  daughter  as  if  hoping  she  would  relieve  the 
awkwardness  by  an  introduction.  But  the  agitated  Emily 
maintained  perfect  silence,  and  every  feature  of  Philip's 
countenance  remained  immovable  as  Mr.  Graham  slowly 
came  forward. 

lie  had  advanced  within  one  step  of  the  spot  where  Philip 
stood  waiting  to  receive  him,  when,  struck  by  the  stern 
look  and  attitude  of  the  latter,  he  stopped  short,  gazed  one 
moment  into  the  eagle  eyes  of  his  step-son,  then  staggered, 

?  rasped  at  the  mantelpiece,  and  would  have  fallen,  but 
'hilip,  starting  forward,  helped  him  to  his  arm-chair. 
And  yet  no  word  was  spoken.  At  length  Mr.  Graham, 
who,  having  fallen  into  the  seat,  sat  still  ga/ing  into  the 
face  of  Mr.  Amory,  ejaculated  in  a  tone  of  wondering  ex- 
citement, "Philip  Amory!  Oh,  my  God!" 

"Yes,  father,"  exclaimed  Emily,  suddenly  rising  and 
grasping  her  father's  arm;  "it  is  Philip;  he  whom  we 
nave  so  long  believed  among  the  dead,  restored  to  us  in 
health  and  safety!" 

Mr.  Graham  rose  from  his  chair  and,  leaning  heavily  on 
Emily's  shoulder,  again  approached  Mr.  Amory,  who,  with 
folded  arms,  stood  fixed  as  marble.  His  step  tottered  with 
a  feebleness  never  before  observable  in  the  sturdy  frame  of 
the  old  man,  and  the  hand  which  he  extended  to  Philip 
Vfts  marked  by  an  unusual  tre-riiulousness.  ]>ut  Philip  did 
flot  offer  to  receive  the  proffered  hand,  or  reply  by  word  to 
the  rejected  salutation. 

Mr,  Graham  turned  tovard-  Emily  and,  forgetting  lhal 
this  neglect  was  shut  from  her  sight,  exclaimed  half-bif 


3.U  Tin:  i.AMi'Li 

terly,  lialf-sadly,  "1   cannot   blame  him!     Cod    knows   I 

wronged  the  boy  !  ' 

"  Wronged  him!"  cried  Philip,  in  a  voice  almost  fearful. 
"  Yes,  wronged  him,  indeed!  Blighted  his  life,  crushed  his 
youth,  half  broke  his  heart,  and  wholly  blighted  his  repu- 
tation!" 

"  No,"  exclaimed  Mr.  (iraham.  who  had  quailed  beneath 
these  accusations,  until  he  reached  the  final  one;  "not 
that,  Philip!  — not  that  !  1  never  harmed  you  there;  1  dis- 
covered my  error  before  I  had  doomed  you  to  infamy  in  the 
eves  of  one  of  your  fellow-men." 

•'  You  acknowledge,  then,  the  error?" 

"  I  do.  1  do  !  I  imputed  to  yon  the  deed  which  proved 
to  have  been  accomplished  through  the  agency  of  my  most 
confidential  clerk,  J  learned  the  truth  almost  immediately, 
but,  too  late,  alas!  to  recall  you.  Then  came  the  news  of 
your  death,  and  I  felt  that  the  injury  had  been  irreparable. 
But  it  was  not  strange,  Philip;  yon  must  allow  that.  Ar- 
cher had  been  in  my  employment  more  than  twenty  years. 
1  believed  him  trust  worthy." 

"  No  !  oh,  no!"  replied  Philip.  "  It  was  nothing  strange 
that,  a  crime  committed,  you  should  have  readily  ascribed 
it  to  me.  You  thought  me  capable  only  of  evil." 

'•  1  was  unjust.  Philip,"  answered  Mr.  (iraham,  with  an 
attempt  to  rally  his  dignity:  ''but  I  had  some  cause." 

"  Perhaps  so,"  responded  Philip  ;  "'  1  am  willing  to  grant 
that." 

"  Let  us  shake  hands  upon  it,  then,"  said  Mr.  (iraham, 
"and  endeavour  to  forget  the  past." 

Philip  acceded  to  this  request,  though  there  was  but  little 
warmth  in  the  manner  of  his  compliance.  Mr.  (iraham 
Jfinked  relieved  from  a  burden  which  had  been  oppressing 
his  conscience  for  vears,  and,  subsiding  into  his  arm-chair, 
be^-vd  fbe  particulars  of  Philip's  experience  during  the 
la-t  twerit  v  years. 

The  outline  of   th"  story  was  soon    told,  Mr.  (iraham  lis- 
N'iil!i;_r  to  it  with  attention,  and   inquiring  into  its  particu- 
icli    proved    that,  during  a  length 
norse,  his  feelings  had  sensibly 
i-.si >n,  with  every  iin-morv  of  whom 
a  rt   a  pa  ng  of  -el  ('-reproach. 

Mr.  A  morv  was  u  naM*1  t<  >  a  ll'ord  an  v  satisfactory  explana- 
tion of  the.  reiiort  of  his  own  death  which  had  been  coiili- 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  355 

dently  affirmed  by  Dr.  Jeremy's  correspondent  at  Rio. 
Upon  a  comparison  of  dates,  however,  it  seemed  probable 
that  the  doctor's  agent  had  obtained  this  information  from 
Philip's  employer,  who  had  every  reason  to  believe  that  the 
young;  man  had  perished  of  the  prevailing  infection. 

To  Philip  himself  it  was  almost  an  equal  matter  of  won- 
der that  his  friends  should  ever  have  obtained  knowledge 
of  his  ilight  and  destination.  But  this  was  easily  accounted 
for,  since  the  vessel  in  which  he  had  embarked  returned 
directly  to  Boston,  and  there  were  among  her  crew  and 
officers  those  who  could  reply  to  the  inquiries  which  the 
benevolent  doctor  had  set  on  foot  some  months  before, 
accompanied  by  the  offer  of  a  liberal  rew;ird. 

Notwithstanding  the  nuinv  romantic  incidents  which 
were  unfolding  themselves,  none  seemed  to  produce  so 
great  an  impression  upon  Mr.  (Iraham's  mind  as  the  singu- 
lar circumstance  that  the  child  who  hud  been  reared  under 
his  roof,  and  endeared  herself  to  him,  in  spite  of  some 
clashing  of  interests  and  opinions,  should  prove  to  be 
Philip's  daughter.  As  he  left  the  room  at  the  conclusion 
of  the  tale,  and  sought  the  solitude  of  his  library,  lie  mut- 
tered to  himself,  "Singular  coincidence!  Very  singular  ! 
Very!" 

Hardly  had  he  departed  before  another  door  was  timidly 
opened,  and  (intrude  looked  cautiously  in.  Her  father 
went  quickly  towards  her.  and.  passing  his  arm  around  her 
waist,  drew  her  towards  Emily,  and  ciaspcd  them  both  in 
a  long  and  silent  embrace, 

'•Philip,'' exclaimed  Emily,  ''can  you  doubt  the  mercy 
which  has  spared  us  for  such  a  meeting?" 

''Oh,  Emily!''  replied  he,  "1  am  deeply  grateful. 
teach  me  how  and  where  to  bestow  my  Tribute  of  praise." 
On  the  hour  of  sued  communion  \\hich  succeeded  wo 
forbear  to  dwell  —  the  silent  raptur*-  of  Emilv,  the  pas- 
sionately-expressed joy  of  Philip,  or  the  trusting,  loving 
glances  which  (ierti  vide  cast  upon  both.  It  was  nearly 
midnight  when  ^\Ir.  Amorv  rose  to  depart.  Emilv.  who 
had  not  thought  of  his  leaving  the  sp,>t  which  she  hoped 
he  would  now  consider  his  home,  entreated  him  to  remain; 
and  Gertrude,  with  her  eyes,  joined  in  the  eager  petition. 
But  ho  persisted  in  his  resolution  w,th  iirmness  and  seri- 
ousness. 

'•Philip/'  said    Emily,  laying   her   hand   upon  his  arm, 


356  7v//-:  L.\vr'i. WITTER. 

"you  have  not  yet  forgiven  my  father.''  She  had  divined 
his  thoughts,  lie  shrank  under  her  reproachful  tones,  an*? 
inailo  no  answer. 

"  Hut  you  /nil,  dear  Philip— yon  will,''  eontiinied  sho, 
in  a  pleading  voice. 

He  hesitated,  then  glanced  at  lier  once  more,  and  re- 
plied," "I  will,  dearest  Kmilv.  I  will — in  time.'' 

When  he  had  gone.  (lertrude  lingered  a  moment  at  the 
•,:loor,  to  watch  his  retreating  figure,  just  visible  in  the  light 
of  the  waning  moon,  then  returned  to  the  parlour,  and 
saying,  "Oh.  what  a  day  this  has  been!"  l>ut  checked  her- 
self, at  the  sight  of  Kimiy.  who.  kneeling  hy  the  sofa  with 
clasped  hands,  and  with  her  white  garments  sweeping  the 
Hour,  looked  the  very  impersonation  of  purity  and  prayer. 
Throwing  one  arm  around  her  neck,  (iertrudt  knelt  on  the 
llnor  beside  her,  and  together  they  sent  up  tr>  tne  throne  of 
God  the  iucense  of  thanksgiving  and  praise! 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

'I'll  K    KKrOMI'KNSK. 

WHKX  Vnele  True  d;ed.  Mr.  Cooper  buried  his  old 
friend  in  the  ancient  'jravevai'd  which  adjoined  the  church 
where  lie  had  l<>ni:  nfVleiated  as  sexton.  Hut  loiiLr  before 
the  time-worn  building  gave  place  to  a  modern  structure 
the  hallowed  remains  n!'  I":,  le.  True  had  found  a  ijiiieter 
restiiiir-plaee— even  a  brain  if'ul  piece  of  undulating  wood- 
land  in  the  neignboui'b  <«'i  of  Mr.  ( I  raham's  eount  rv  resi- 
denee.  winch  had  been  cojisecra'.ed  as  a  rural  cfinetrrv; 
and  in  tiie  lovelie.-t  nook  of  this  beautiful  spot  the  ashes 
•  !••  g<iinl  old  lamplighter  found  their  lii:ai  tvpo-e. 

'1'iiH  lot  of   land.  whi"ii    had    been    piirchu>ed  by  Willie's 

1  bi'i'al  t v,  selected    'ov  (iertrude.  and    iiv  her   i"atie  fragrant 

\\  tii    -Miini'-r    rose   ;uid    winter    ,\v.    now  enclosed   al.-o   tiie 

forms  of    Mr.    ('oopi-r    and    Mr-1.    Sullivan:   and    over   these 

graves    (ierti'inie    i  :-,.j    pl;niti-f|    maiiv    a    !l»we|-    and 

:         a      .       tv-  pi       all  V  d  id   -he  \  i'-W  it  as  a 

.-•i'- ••  •;  ilutvjiiid  pi'i\ , !C'_T  to  mark  the  annivei'.-arv  of  the 
ij'-iitl  of  each  i,\-  a  t.  iuite  ol'  fresh  garlandsj  ami,  with 


Tim  LAMPLWUTEK.  3f*7 

this  pious  purpose  in  view,  she  left  MY.  Graham's  house 
one  beautiful  afternoon  about  a  week  after  the  events  nar- 
rated in  the  previous  chapter. 

She  carried  on  her  arm  a  basket,  containing  her  offering 
of  llowers;  and,  as  she  had  a  .ong  walk  before  her,  started 
at  a  rapid  pace.  Let  us,  follow  her,  and  briefly  pursue  the 
train  of  thought  which  accompanied  her  on  her  way.  She 
had  left  her  father  with  Kmilv.  She  would  not  ask  him 
to  join  her  in  her  walk,  though  he  had  once  expressed  a 
desire  to  visit  the  grave  of  Uncle  True,  for  he  and  Emily 
were  talking  together  so  contentedly,  it  would  have  been 
a  pity  to  disturb  them;  and  Gertrude's  reflections  were  en- 
grossed by  the  thought  of  their  tranquil  happiness.  She 
thought  of  herself,  too.  as  associated  with  them  both;  of 
the  dee})  and  long-tried  love  of  Kmily,  and  of  the  fond 
outpourings  of  affeetion  daily  and  hourly  lavished  upon  her 
by  her  newly-found  parent,  and  felt  that  she  could  scarcely 
repay  their  kindness  by  the  devotion  of  a  lifetime. 

She  tried  to  banish  the  remembrance  of  Willie's  faith- 
lessness and  desertion.  But  the  painful  recollection  pre- 
sented itself  continually,  notwithstanding  her  utmost 
efforts  to  repress  it  ;  and  at  last,  ceasing  the  struggle,  she 
gave  herself  up  for  the  time  to  a  deep  and  saddening  rev- 
erie. She  had  received  two  visits  from  Willie  since  the 
first;  but  the  second  meeting  had  been  in  its  character 
very  similar,  and  on  the  succeeding  occasion  the  constraint 
had  increased  instead  of  diminishing.  Several  times  Willie 
had  made  an  effort  to  speak  and  act  with  the  freedom  of 
former  davs;  but  a  sudden  blush,  or  siirn  of  confusion  and 
distress,  on  (Jcrtrude's  part,  deterred  him  from  any  further 
attempt  to  put  to  flight  the  reserve  which  subsisted  in  their 
intercourse.  Again,  Gertrude,  who  had  resolved,  previous 
to  his  last  visit,  to  meet  him  \\ith  frankness,  smiled  upon 
him  affectionately  at  his  coming,  and  offered  her  hand  with 
such  sisterlv  freedom,  that  he  was  emboldened  to  take  and 
retaiii  in  his  grasp,  and  was  on  the  point  of  unburdening 
his  mind  of  some  weighty  secret,  when  she  turned  abruptly 
away,  took  up  some  trivial  piece  of  work,  and  while  she 
seemed  absorbed  in  it.  addressed  to  him  an  unimportant 
question — a  course  of  conduct  which  disconcerted  him  for 
the  remainder  of  h;s  Slav. 

As  Gertrude  pondered  the  distressing  results  of  every 
Visit,  she  half  hoped  he  would  discontinue  them,  belie vintr 


858  THE  LAMPLUllITER. 

that  their  feelings  would  be  le-s  \voi; ruled  by  a  total  sopfl- 
ration  than  by  interviews  which  must  leave  un  the  mind  oi 
each  a  tLill  greater  -ruse  of  estrangement. 

Strange,  she  had  not  vet  acquainted  him  with  the  event 
so  interesting  to  herself--the  d;sco\crv  of  her  dearly-loved 
father.  Once  .-he  tried  to  speak  of  it,  but  WHS  so  overcome 
at  tiie  idea  of  imparting  to  the  contidant  of  her  childhood 
an  experience  of  which  she  could  scarcely  yet  think  with- 
out emotion,  that  she  paused  in  the  altempt,  fearing  that, 
should  she  on  any  topic  give  way  to  her  sensibilities,  she 
should  lose  all  restraint  over  her  feelings  and  lay  open  her 
whole  heart  to  Willie. 

But  one  thing  distres-ed  her  more  than  all  others.  In  his 
fir.-t  attempt  to  throw  oil'  all  disguise,  \Villie  had  more  than 
intimated  to  her  his  own  unhappiness;  and  ere  she  could 
find  an  opportunity  to  change  the  .-ubjeet  and  repel  a  con- 
fidence for  which  she  stid  !'  It  herself  unprepared,  he  had 
spoken  mournfully  over  his  future  prusuects  i;i  life. 

The  only  construction  which  Gertrude  could  give  to  this 
confession  was  that  it  had  ref"reii20  to  his  engagement  with 
Isabel,  and  it  gave  rise  to  the  suspicion  that,  infatuated  by 
her  beauty,  he  had  impulsive!  v  !>«und  himself  to  one  who 
could  never  make  lr.ni  happy.  The  little  scenes  to  vhich 
she  herself  had  bet  n  a  witness  corroborated  this  idea,  as, 
on  both  occasions  of  her  seeing  the  lo\ers  and  overhearing 
their  words,  some  cau.-e  of  vexation  seemed  to  exist  on 
Willie's  part.  ''He  loves  h'T/'  thought,  (icrtrude,  ''and  is 
ul-"  bound  to  her  in  honour;  but  he  noes  already  the  want 
of  harmony  in  their  natures.  Poor  \Viiiic!  it  is  impos- 
sible he  should  ever  be  happy  with  Isabel." 

And  (<ert  Hide's  sympathising   heart  mourned  not  more, 

y  over  her  own   griefs  than  over  the  disappointment 

that  Wilbe  must  \><-  experiencing,  if  he  had  ever  hoped   to 

peace  in    a  union  with   s>   overbearing,  ill-humoured, 

:  •     -a  girl. 

th   these   and    similar   musings,  sho 
s  she  was  scaro'lv  herself  aware 
"ller    of   the   heavv  pines  wldcb 
he  cemetery.      llereslie   paused 
h  ng    bn  .•/••  that    played    hen^ath   the 
s;::g    throii'j.-Ji    the    gatewav.  entei'cd    a 
•     :    :    '.   a  ;  :     [u'occeded    .-lowly  up  tho 
a.1,.  i\s  uuii:t.  and    peai;eful,  seemed   uu  = 


TTTK  LAMPLIGHTER  35H 

usually  still  and  secluded,  and  save  the  occasional  carol  of 
a  bird,  there  was  no  sound  to  disturb  the  perfect  silence 
and  repose.  As  Gertrude  gazed  upon  the  familiar  beauties 
of  those  sacred  grounds  which  had  been  her  frequent  re- 
sort during  several  years — as  she  walked  between  beds  of 
(lowers,  inhaled  the  fragrant  and  balmy  air,  and  felt  the 
solemn  appeal,  the  spiritual  breathings,  that  haunted  the 
holv  place — every  motion  that  was  not  in  harmony  with  the 
scene  gradually  took  its  flight,  and  she  experienced  only 
that  sensation  of  sweet  and  half-joyful  melancholy  which 
was  awakened  by  the  thought  of  the  happy  dead. 

After  a  while  she  left  the  broad  road  and  turned  into  a 
little  bypath,  and  then  again  to  a  narrower  foot-track,  und 
gained  the  shady  and  retired  spot  which  had  recommended 
itself  to  her  choice.  It  was  situated  on  the  slope  of  a  little 
hill;  a  huge  rock  protected  it  on  one  side  from  the  obser- 
vation of  the  passer-by,  and  a  fine  old  oak  overshadowed  it 
upon  the  other.  The  iron  enclosure,  of  simple  workman- 
ship, was  nearly  overgrown  by  the  green  ivy,  which  had 
been  planted  there  by  Gertrude's  hand,  and  the  moss-grown 
rock  was  festooned  by  its  tendrils.  Upon  a  jutting  stone 
beside  the  grave  of  Uncle  True  Gertrude  seated  herself, 
and  after  a  few  moments  of  contemplation  sighed  heavily, 
emptied  her  flowers  upon  the  grass,  and  commenced  wea«r- 
ing  a  graceful  chaplet,  which,  when  completed,  she  placed 
upon  the  grave  at  her  feet.  With  the  remainder  of  the 
blossoms  she  strewed  the  other  mounds;  and  then,  drawing 
forth  a  pair  of  gardening  gloves  and  a  little  trowel,  she 
employed  herself  for  nearly  an  hour  among  the  flowers  and 
vines  with  which  she  had  embowered  the  spot.  Her  work 
finished,  she  again  placed  herself  at  the  foot  of  the  old 
rock,  removed  her  gloves,  pushed  back  from  her  forehead 
f  he  braids  of  her  hair,  and  appeared  to  be  resting  from  her 
.abours. 

It  was  seven  years  that  day  since  Uncle  Trr.e  died,  hut 
Gertrude  had  not  forgotten  the  kind  old  man.  As  she 
gaxed  upon  the  grassy  mound  that  covered  him,  and  scene 
after  scene  rose;  up  before  her  in  which  that  earliest  friend 
and  herself  had  whiled  away  the  happy  hours,  there,  came. 
to  embitter  the  cherished  remembrance,  the  recollection  o! 
that  third  and  seldom  aosent  one  who  completed  the  mem- 
ory of  their  fireside  joys;  ami  (lertrude,  while  yielding  t;i 
the  iuwaj'd  reflection,  unconsciously  exclaimed  aloud.  "  Oil, 


860  TIIK  i.AMP 

UndeTrue!  you  and  I  are  not  parted  yet.  but  Willie  ia 
not  of  us!  " 

"  Oh,  Gertrude,"  said  a  reproachful  voice  close  at  lier 
side,  "is  Willie  to  blame  for  that  ?  ''  She  started,  turned, 
sa\v  the  object  of  her  thoughts  with  his  mild  sad  eye  fixed 
inquiringly  upon  he;-,  and,  without  replying  to  his  question, 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

He  threw  himself  upon  the  ground  at  her  feet,  and,  at 
on  the  occasion  of  their  first  childish  interview,  gently 
lifted  her  bowed  head  from  the  hands  upon  which  it  had 
fallen,  and  compelled  her  to-  look  him  in  the  face,  saying 
at  the  same  time  in  the  most  imploring  accents,  '"Tell  me, 
Gerty,  in  pitv  tell  me,  why  1  am  excluded  from  your 
sympathy?  "  But  still  she  nrde  no  answer,  except  by  the 
tears  that  cours-'d  down  her  cheeks. 

"You  make  me  miserable,"  continued  he.  "What  have 
I  done  that  you  have  so  shut  mo  out  of  your  affection  ? 
Why  do  you!  '  Kile  so  coldly  upon  me  —  and  even  shrink  from 
mv  sight?"  added  he,  as  Gertrude,  unable  to  endure  iiis 
searching  look,  turned  her  eves  in  another  direction  and 
strove  to  free  her  hands  from  his  grasp. 

"Iain  not  old  —  1  do  not  mean  to  be,"  said  she,  her 
voice  half-choked  with  emotion. 

"  Oh,  Gertrude,"  replied  he.  relinquishing  her  hands  and 
turning  away,  *'  I  see  you  have  eeased  to  love  me.  I 
trembled  when  I  first  beheld  rou,  so  lovely,  so  beautiful, 
and  so  beloved  by  all,  and  feared  lest  some  fortunate  rival 
had  stolen  your  heart  from  iis  bovish  keeper.  But  even 
then  1  did  not  d'-em  that  you  would  refuse  me,  at  least,  a 


eagerly.      "Oh,  Willie, 

you  must  not  In}  angry  with   n;<-|      Let  me  be  your  sister!" 
I  le  s  m  ill  MI  ;i  most  mournful  smile,  and  said,  "  1  was  n'Lrlit, 

im    too   mueh,  and    dis- 
ing  mo  nothing.      Be  it 

so.          rup:-;  your  prn'-nep  \vas    or  the  best;  but,  oh  Ger- 
trude. i-   IKIS  made  me   heartl'i-ok-M;/' 

'•Wdiie!"    exclaimed    Gertrude,  with    excitement,   "do 
yor,  know  how  ,-tra1  •_:  'ly    vou  ;  p-  speaking;'" 

"StrangL.lv?'''  ro-pn'ided  Wdlie,  in  a  half-ofTendod  tone. 

"  Is  it    o    trai  ;.;•••  I  hat    I  should  !o\v    you  ?      Have  1  not   for 

I  f  ll>    I1    mi'ti  '  •..'.••••<  if   on  r  past  a  ll'eet  ion,  and 

looked    iuiuard  io  our  reunion    j»s  iii\  only  liope  of   happi* 


THK  LAMPLIGHTER.  SKI 

OW8?  Has  not  this  fond  expectation  inspired  my  labours, 
and  cheered  my  toils,  and  endeared  to  me  my  life,  in  spite 
of  its  bereavements  ?  And  can  yon,  in  the  very  sight  of 
these  cold  mounds,  beneath  which  lie  buried  all  else  that 
I  held  dear  on  earth,  crush  and  destroy  without  compas- 
sion this  solitary  but  all-engrossing " 

*  Willie,"  interrupted  Gertrude,  her  calmness  suddenly 
restored,  and  speaking  in  a  kind  but  serious  tone,  "  is  il 
honourable  for  you  to  address  me  thus?  Have  you  for- 
gotten— — " 

"  No,  I  have  not  forgotten,"  exclaimed  he  vehemently. 
"  I  have  not  furgotteii  that  I  have  no  right  to  distress  or 
annoy  you,  and  1  will  do  so  no  more.  But  oh,  Gerty!  my 
sister  Gerty  (since  all  hope  of  a  nearer  tie  is  at  an  end), 
blame  me  not,  and  wonder  not,  if  I  fail  at  present  to  per- 
form a  brother's  part.  1  cannot  stay  in  this  neighbourhood. 
I  cannot  be  the  patient  witness  of  another's  happiness. 
My  services,  my  time,  my  life,  you  may  command,  and  in 
my  far-distant  home  I  will  never  cease  to  pray  that  the 
husband  you  have  chosen,  whoever  he  be,  may  prove  him- 
self worthy  of  my  noble  Gertrude,  and  love  her  one-half 
as  well  as  I  do  ! " 

"  Willie  I"  said  Gertrude,  "what  madness  is  this?  I 
am  bound  by  no  such  tie  as  you  describe  ;  but  what  ghall 
I  think  of  your  treachery  to  Isabel  ?" 

"  To  Isabel  !"  cried  "Willie,  starting  up,  as  if  seized  with 
ft  new  idea;  "  and  has  that  silly  rumour  readied  you  too  ? 
and  did  you  put  faith  in  the  falsehood  ?" 

"Falsehood!"  exclaimed  Gertrude,  lifting  her  hitherto 
drooping  eyelids  and  casting  upon  him,  through  their  wet 
lashes,  a  look  of  earnest  scrutiny. 

Calmly  returning  a  glance  whieh  he  had  neither  avoided 
Hor  quailed  under,  Willie  responded  unhesitatingly,  and 
with  a  tone  of  astonishment  nut  unmingled  with  reproach, 
"Falsehood!  Yes.  With  the  knowledge  you  have  both  of 
her  and  myself,  could  you  doubt  its  being  such  for  a 
moment  ?  " 

"Oh,  Willie! '"  cried  Gertrude,  "could  I  doubt  the  evi- 
dence of  my  own  eyes  and  ears?  Had  I  trusted  ix  less 
faithful  witnesses,  1  might  have  been  deeeived.  Do  »-ot 
attempt  to  conceal  from  me  the  truth,  to  which  my  own 
observation  can  testily.  Treat  me  with  frankness,  Willie' 
Indeed,  indeed,  1  deserve  it  at.  vuiir  hands!" 


302  THE  LAMPTJaTTTER. 

"Frankness,  Gertrude!  it  is  you  only  who  are  mysteri- 
ous. Could  I  lay  my  whole  soul  hare  to  your  ga/.e,  YOU 
would  be  convinced  of  its  truth,  its  perfect  truth,  to  its 
first  affection.  And  as  to  Isabel  Clinton,  if  it  is  to  her 
that  you  have  reference,  your  eyes  and  your  ears  have  both 
played  you  false,  if — 

"Oh,  Willie!  Willie  !"  exclaimed  Gertrude,  interrupting 
him:  "  have  you  so  soon  forgotten  your  devotion  to  the 
belle  of  Saratoga,  your  unwillingness  to  sanction  her  tem- 
porary absence  from  your  sight,  the  pain  which  the  mere 
suggestion  of  the  journey  caused  you.  and  the  fond  impa- 
tience which  threatened  to  render  those  few  days  an 
eternity  ?" 

"Stop!  stop!"  cried  Willie,  a  new  light  breaking  in 
upon  him,  "and  tell  me  where  you  learned  all  this?" 

"In  the  very  t:ji>  t  vhere  you  spoke  and  acted.  Mr. 
Graham's  parlour  did  not  witness  our  first  meeting.  In 
the  public  promenade-ground,  on  the  shore  of  Saratoga 
lake,  and  on  board  the-  steamboat  at  Albany,  did  1  both  see 
and  recognize  you — myself  unknown.  There,  too,  did  your 
own  words  serve  to  convince  me  of  the  truth  of  that  which 
from  other  lips  I  had  refused  to  believe." 

"  Listen  to  me,  Gertrude,"  said  he,  in  a  fervent  and  al- 
most solemn  tone,  "'and  believe  that  in  sight  of  my 
mother's  grave,  and  in  the  pres  nee  of  that  pure  spirit  (and 
he  looked  reverent,]}'  upward)  who  taught  me  the  love  of 
truth,  I  speak  with  such  sincerity  and  candour  as  are  fit- 
ting for  thu  ears  of  angels.  I  do  not  question  the  accuracy 
with  which  you  overheard  my  expostulations  and  entreaties 
on  the  subject  of  Miss  Clinton's  proposed  journey,  or  the 
impatience  I  expressed  at  parting  for  her  speedy  return,  f 
will  not  pa!1sc  either  to  inquire  where  the  object  of  all  my 
thoughts  could  have  been  at  the  time  that,  notwithstanding 
the  change.,  of  years,  she  escaped  my  eairer  eves.  Let  me 
first  clear  myself  of  tlii:  imputation,  and  then  there  will  be 
room  for  all  further  explanations. 

"1  did  feel  pain  at  Miss  Clinton's  sudden  departure  for 
Xew  York,  under  a  pretext  which  ought  not  to  have 
weighed  with  her  for  a  moment.  1  did  employ  every  ar- 
gument to  dissuade  her  from  her  purpose  ;  and  when  my 
eloquence  had  failed  to  induce  the  abandonment  of  the 
scheme,  I  availed  myself  of  every  suggestion  a;id  motive, 
which  possibly  might,  mtluenee  her  to  shorten  h£r  absence. 


7777?  LANPLTGHTEU.  303 

Not  because  tlie  society  of  tlie  selfish  girl  was  essential,  or 
even  conducive,  to  my  happiness— far  from  it — hut  hecause 
her  excellent  father,  who  -so  worshipped  and  idolized  his 
only  child  that  he  would  have  thought  no  sacrifice  too  great 
to  promote  her  enjoyment,  was  at  the  very  time,  amid  all 
the  discomfort  of  a  crowded  watering-place,  hovering 
between  life  and  death,  and  I  was  disgusted  at  the  heart« 
lessness  which  voluntarily  left  tlie  fondest  of  parents  de- 
prived of  all  female  tending,  to  the  charge  of  a  hired  nurse 
and  an  unskillful  though  willing  youth  like  myself.  That 
eternity  might,  in  Miss  Clinton's  ahsence.  set  a  seal  to  the 
life  of  her  father  was  a  thought  which  in  my  indignation  I 
was  0:1  the  point  of  uttering,  hut  I  checked  myself,  unwill- 
ing to  interfere  too  far  in  a  matter  which  came  not  within 
my  rightful  province,  and  perhaps  excite  unnecessary 
alarm  in  Isabel.  If  selfishness  mingled  at  all  in  my  views, 
dear  Gertv,  and  made  me  over-impatient  for  the  return  of 
the  daughter  to  her  post  of  dut\,  it  was  that  I  might  be  re- 
leased from  almost  constant  attendance  upon  my  invalid 
friend,  and  hasten  to  her  from  whom  L  hoped  such  warmth 
of  greeting  as  I  was  only  eager  to  bestow.  Can  yon  wonder, 
then,  that  your  reception  struck  cold  upon  my  throbbing 
heart  ?  '' 

''  But  you  understand  the  cause  of  that  coldness  now," 
said  Gertrude,  looking  up  at  him  through  a  rain  of  tears, 
whic.h  like  a  summer  sun-shower  reflected  itself  in  rainbow 
smiles  upon  her  happy  countenance.  "  You  know  now 
why  I  dared  not  let  mv  heart  speak  out.'5 

"  And  this  was  all,  then?"  cried  Willie;  "  and  you  are 
free,  and  I  mav  love  von  still  ? '' 

"  Free  from  all  bonds,  dear  Willie,  but  those  which  you 
yourself  clasped  around  mo,  and  which  have  encircled  me 
vrom  my  childhood.'' 

And  now,  with  heart  pressed  to  heart,  they  pour  in  each 
other's  ear  tin;  tale  of  mutual  affection,  planted  in  infancy, 
nourished  in  youth,  fostered  and  st  rengthened  amid  separa- 
Mon  and  absence,  and  perfected  through  trial,  to  bless  and 
sanctifv  ev'Tv  year  of  their  after  life. 

''But.  (lertv,''  exclaimed  Willie  as.  confidence  restored. 
they  sat  side  by  side  conversing  freely  of  the  past,  "how 
could  von  think  for  an  instant  that  Isabel  Clinton  would 
have  power  to  displace  yon  in  my  tvgard  'J.  1  was  not  trniliv 
of  bo  great  an  injustice  towards  you;  for  even  when  1  be- 


3»U  TI1K  LAMPLIGHTER, 

lieved  myself  supplanted  by  another,  I  fancied  that  other 
hero  of  such  shining  qualities  as  could  scarcely  be  sur- 
passed." 

"  And  who  could  surpass  Isabel  ?  "  inquired  Gerty.  "  Can 
you  wonder  that  1  trembled  for  your  allegiance  when  I 
thought  of  her  beauty,  her  fashion,  her  family,  and  her 
wealth,  and  remembered  the  forcible  manner  in  which  all 
these  were  presented  to  your  sight  and  knowledge?" 

"  Hut  what  are  all  these,  Gerty,  to  one  who  knows  her  as 
we  do?  Do  not  a  proud  eye  and  a  scornful  lip  destroy  the 
eifect  of  beauty?  (.'an  fashion  excuse  rudeness,  or  noble 
birth  cover  natural  deficiencies?  And  as  to  money,  what 
did  1  ever  want  of  that,  except  to  employ  it  for  the  happi- 
ness of  yourself — and  them  ?  "  and  he  glanced  at  the  graves 
of  his  mother  and  grandfather. 

"Oh.  Willie!  you  are  so  disinterested." 

"  Not  in  this  case.  Had  Isabel  possessed  the  beauty  of  a 
Venus  and  the  wisdom  of  a  Minerva,  I  could  not  have  for- 
gotten how  little  happiiiess  there  could  be  with  one  who, 
while  devoting  herself  to  the  pursuit  of  pleasure,  had 
become  dead  to  natural  affections  and  indifferent  to  the 
holiest  ot  duties.  Could  I  see  her  lice  from  the  bedside  of 
her  father  to  engage  in  the  frivolities  and  drink  in  the 
(latteries  of  an  idle  crowd— or,  when  unwillingly  sum- 
moned thither,  shrink  from  the  toils  and  watchings  im- 
posed by  his  feebleness — and  still  imagine  that  such  a 
woman  could  bless  and  adorn  a  iireside?  Could  I  fail  to 
contrast  her  unfeeling  neglect,  ill-concealed  petulance, 
flagrant  levity,  and  irreverence  of  spirit,  with  the  sweet  and 
loving  devotion,  the  saintly  patience,  and  the  dee])  and  fer- 
vent piety  of  my  own  Gertrude?  I  should  have  been  false 
to  myself,  as  well  as  to  you,  dearest,  if  such  traits  of  char- 
acter as  Miss  Clinton  constantly  evinced  could  have  ever 
weakened  my  love  and  admiration  for  yourself.  And  now, 
to  see  the  little  playmate-  whose  image  1  cherished  so  fon.lly 
matured  into  the  lo\ely  and  graceful  woman,  her  sweet 
attractions  crowned  by  so  much  beauty  as  to  place  her 
beyond  recognition,  and  still  her  heart  as  much  mv  own 
as  ever!  Oh,  Gerty,  it,  is  too  much  happiness!  Would 
that  I  could  impart  a  share  of  it  to  those  who  loved  us  both 
so  wei ,  !  " 

Ai.d  who  can  say  that  they  did  not  share  it? — that  the 
spirit,  of  L'ncle  True  was  not  ih'-re  to  witness  the  comple- 


THE  LAMPLWHTKR.  Mn 

tion  of  his  many  hopeful  prophecies  ?  that  the  old  grand- 
lather  was  not  there  to  see  all  his  doubts  and  fears  giving 
place  to  joyful  certainties?  and  that  the  soul  of  the  gentle 
mother  whose  rapt  slumbers  had  even  in  life  foreshadowed 
such  a  meeting,  and  who,  by  the  lessons  she  had  given 
her  child  in  his  boyhood,  the  warnings  spoken  to  his  later 
years,  and  the  ministering  guidance  of  her  disembodied 
spirit,  had  fitted  him  for  the  struggle  with  tcmptation; 
su.-tained  him  through  its  trials,  and  restored  him  trium- 
phant to  the  sweet  friend  of  his  infancy — who  shall  say 
that  even  now  she  hovered  not  over  them  with  parted 
wings,  realising  the  jov  prefigured  in  that  dreamy  vision 
which  pictured  to  her  sight  the  union  between  the  son  and 
the  daughter  of  her  love,  when  the  one,  shielded  by  her 
fond  care  from  every  danger  and  snatched  from  the  power 
of  temptation,  should  be  restored  to  the  arms  of  the  other 
vho,  by  a  long  and  patient  continuance  in  well-doing,  had 
earned  so  full  a  recompense,  so  all-sufficient  a  reward  ? 


CHAPTEE    XLVIII. 

ANCHORS    FOR    WORLD-TRIED    SOULS. 

THE  sunset  hour  was  near  when  Gertrude  and  Willie 
rose  to  depart.  They  left  the  cemetery  by  a  different  gate- 
way, and  in  the  opposite  direction  to  that  by  which  Ger- 
trude had  entered.  Here  Willie  found  the  chaise  in  which 
he  had  come,  though  the  horse  had  contrived  to  loosen  the 
bridle  bv  which  he  was  fastened,  had  strayed  to  the  side  of 
the  road,  eaten  as  much  grass  as  he  wished,  and  was  now 
sniffing  the  air,  looking  up  and  down  the  road,  and,  de- 
spairing of  his  master's  return,  seemed  on  the  point  of 
taking  his  departure.  He  was  reclaimed,  however,  without 
difficulty,  and,  as  if  glad  after  his  long  r<-st  to  be  again  in 
motion,  brought  them  in  half-an-honr  to  Mr.  Graham's 
door. 

As  soon  us  they  came  in  sight  of  the  house.  Gertrude, 
familial-  with  the  customarv  wavs  of  the  I'amilv,  perceived 
that  something  unusual  was  goini:  forward.  Lamps  were 
moving  about  in  every  direction;  tho  front  door  stood  wide 


366  THE  LAMPLIGHTER. 

open;  there  was.  what  she  had  never  seen  before,  the  blaze 
of  a  bright  fire  discernible  through  tiie  windows  of  the  best 
chamber;  and  as  they  drew  still  nearer  she  observed  that 
the  piazza  was  hall'  covered  with  trunks. 

ATI  these  appearances,  as  she  rightly  conjectured,  betok- 
ened the  arrival  of  Mrs.  (iraham,  and  possibly  of  other  com- 
pany. She  might  perhaps  have  regretted  the  ill-timed 
coming  of  this  bustling  lady  at  the  moment  when  she  was 
eager  for  a  quiet  opportunity  to  present  Willie  to  Kmily 
and  her  father,  and  communicate  to  them  her  own  happi- 
ness; but  if  such  a  thought  presented  itself  it  vanished  in 
a  moment.  Her  joy  was  too  complete  to  be  marred  by  so 
trilling  a  disappointment.  "Let  us  drive  up  the  avenue, 
Willie/''  said  she,  "  to  the  side-door,  so  that  (ieorge  mav  see 
us  and  take  your  horse  to  the  stable." 

"  No,"  said  Willie,  as  he  stopped  opposite  the  fronl  gate  : 
"I  can't  come  in  now — there  seems  to  be  a  house  full  of 
company,  and  besides  I  have  an  appointment  in  town  at 
eight  o'clock,  and  promised  to  be  punctual ;"— he  glanced 
at  his  watch  and  added,  "it  is  near  that  already.  J  did 
not  think  of  its  being  so  late;  but,  I  shall  see  you  to-mor- 
row morning,  may  I  not?"  She  looked  her  assent,  and, 
with  a  warm  grasp  of  the  hand  as  he  helped  IHT  from  the 
chaise,  and  a  mutual  smile  of  confidence  and  love,  they 
separated. 

He  drove  rapidly  towards  l>oston.  and  she.  opening  the 
gate,  found  herself  in  the  arms  of  Fanny  Bruce,  who  had 
been  impatiently  waiting  the  departure  of  Willie  to  seize 
her  dear  Miss  (Jertrude  and,  between  tears  and  kisses,  pour 
out  her  congratulations  and  thanks  for  her  happy  escape 
from  that  horrid  steamboat — for  this  was  the  first  time  they 
had  met  since  the  accident. 

''Has  Mrs.  (iraham  come,  "Farm  v  ?''  asked  Gertrude^  as 
they  walked  up  to  the  house  together'. 

"Yes,  indeed;  Mrs.  Graham,  and  Kittv.  and  Isabel,  and 
a  little  girl,  and  a  sick  gentleman-  Mr.  ('lititon,  I  believe;, 
and  another  gentleman  -but  //<•'*  gone.'' 

"  \V  ho  ha-  gone  y  " 

'•Oh,  a  tail,  dignified  looking  man.  with  black  eyes,  and 
a  beautiful  face,  and  hair  as  white  ;is  if  lie  wen-  old — and 
he  isn't  old  MI  IHT." 

n    -a  v   he   has  ^one  ?  " 

rc.-t       lie  was  here  when 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER  3<>? 

I  came,  and  he  went  away  about  an  hour  ago.  I  hoard  him 
toll  Miss  Emily  that  ho  had  agreed  to  moot  a  friend  in 
Boston,  but  perhaps  he'd  come  back  this  evening.  I  hope 
he  \vill,  Miss  Gertrude;  you  ought  to  see  him." 

They  had  now  reached  the  house,  and  through  the  open 
door  Gertrude  could  plainly  distinguish  the  loud  tones  of 
Mrs.  Graham's  voice  proceeding  from  the  parlour  on  the 
right.  She  was  talking  to  her  husband  and  Emily,  and 
was  just  saying  as  Gertrude  entered,  "  Oh.  it  was  the  most 
awful  thing  I  ever  heard  of  in  my  life!  and  to  think, 
Emily,  of  your  being  on  board,  and  our  Isabel!  Poor 
child!  she  hasn't  got  her  colour  back  yet  after  the  fright. 
And  Gertrude  Flint,  too!  By  the  way.  they  say  Gertrude 
behaved  very  well.  Where  is  the  child  ?  " 

Turning  round,  she  now  saw  Gertrude,  who  was  just 
entering  the  room,  and,  going  towards  her,  she  kissed  her 
with  considerable  heartiness  and  sincerity;  for  Mrs.  Graham, 
though  somewhat  coarse  and  blunt,  was  not  without  good 
feelings  when  the  occasion  was  such  as  to  awaken  them. 

Gertrude's  entrance  having  served  to  interrupt  the 
stream  of  exclamatory  remarks  in  which  the  excitable  lady 
had  been  indulging  for  ten  minutes  or  more,  she  now  be- 
thought herself  of  the  necessity  of  removing  her  bonnet 
And  outside  garments,  a  part  of  which,  being  loosed  from 
Uieir  fastenings,  she  had  been  dragging  after  her  about  the 
floor. 

'•  Well!"  exclaimed  she,  "I  suppose  I  had  better  follow 
the  girls'  example  and  get  some  of  the  dust  off  from  me! 
Fm  half  buried,  I  believe!  .But  there,  that's  better  than 
coming  on  in  the  horrid  steam-boat  last  night,  as  my 
brother  Clinton  was  so  crazy  as  to  propose.  Where's 
Bridget?  1  want  her  to  take  up  some  of  my  things." 

"  1  will  assist  you."  said  Gertrude,  taking  up  a  little 
carpet-bag,  throwing  a  scarf,  which  had  been  stretching 
ftcross  the  room,  over  her  arm.,  and  then  following  Mr.-:, 
tfraham  closely,  in  order  to  support  the  heavy  travelling- 
shn\vl  which  was  hanging  half  oil  that  ladv's  shoulders.  A'- 
the  first  landing-place?,  however,  she  found  herself  sud- 
denly encircled  in  Kitu's  warm  embrace,  and,  laving  do\\n 
her  burdens,  gave  herself  up  for  a  few  moments  to  the 
hugging  and  kissing  that  sueeerded. 

At  the  head  of  the  ^airease  ,-iie  met  Isabel,  wrapped  in  ,i 
dressing  gown,  with  a  large-  pitcher  in  her  hand,  and  a 


8uS  T11K  LAMPLIGHTER 

most  discontented  expression  of  countenance.  She  set  the 
p. teher  on  the  lloor,  however,  and  saluted  (iertnule  with  a 
good  grace.  "  I'm  glad  to  see  you  alive,"  said  she, 
"though  I  cannot  look  at  you  without  shuddering;  it 
reminds  me  so  of  that  dreadful  day  when  we  were  in  such 
frightful  danger.  How  lucky  we  were  to  be  saved,  when 
there  were  so  many  drowned !  I've  wondered  ever  since, 
Gertrude,  how  you  could  be  so  calm;  I'm  sure  I  shouldn't 
have  known  what-  to  do  if  von  hadn't  been  there  to  sug- 
gest. But,  oh  dear!  don't  let  us  speak  of  it,;  it's  a  thing  I 
eant' bear  to  think  of  !"  and  wit  h  a  shudder  and  shrug  of 
the  shoulders,  Isabel  dismissed  the  subject  and  called 
somewhat  pettishly  to  Kitty — "Kitty,  I  thought  you  went 
to  get  our  pitcher  filled!  " 

Kitty,  who,  in  obedience  to  a  loud  call  and  demand  from 
her    aunt,   had    hastily   run     to    her    room   with  the    little 
travelling-bag  which  Gertriide   had   dropped   on   the  stair- 
case, now  came   back   quite  out  of  breath,  saying,  "I  did, 
ring  the  bell  twice.     Hasn't  anybody  come?" 

"No!"  replied  Belle!  •'  and  J  should  like  to  wash  my 
face  and  curl  my  hair  before  tea.  if  I  could." 

"  Let  me  take  the  pitcher,"  said  Gertrude;  "I  am  go- 
ing downstairs,  and  will  send  .Jane  up  with  the  water." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Belle,  rather  feebly-  while  Kitty  ex- 
claimed, "No,  no,  Gertrude;  I'll  go  myself." 

J>ut  it  was  too  late;   Gertrude  had  gone. 

Gertrude  found  Mrs.  Kllis  full  of  troubles  and  perplexi- 
ties. "Only  think,"  said  the  astonished  housekeeper,  "of 
their  coming,  five  of  them,  without  the  least  warning  in  the 
world;  and  here  I've  nothing  in  the  house  tit  for  Lea;  not 
a  bit,  of  rieh  cake,  not  a  scrap  of  cold  ham.  And  of  course 
they're  hungry  after  their  long  journey,  and  will  want 
some!  h  ing  nice." 

"Oh,  if  (hey  are  very  hungry,  Mrs.  Kllis.  they  can  eat 
dried  beef  and  fresh  biscuit  and  plain  cake:  and  if  you  will 
give  me  the  kevs  I  will  get  out  the  preserves  and  the  best 
silver,  and  see  that  the  table  is  set  properlv." 

Nothing  was  a  trouble  to  (Jertrude  that  night.  Kverv- 
'  i'!Lr  that  she  toueiu'd  went  right,  .lane  cauirht  herspirit 
and  became  astoni  liinglv  active;  and  when  the  really 
fiii  table  \vas  ,-pread,  and  Mr-'.  Kllis,  sifter  glancing 
around  and  seeing  that  ail  \\  a  -  a~  it  should  be,  looked  into 
the  beaming  '-yes  and  observed  the  glowing  cheek  and  sunny 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER.  369 

smile  of  the  happy  girl,  she  exclaimed,  in  her  ignorance, 
'Good  gracious,  Gertrude,  anybody  would  think  you  were 
overjoyed  to  see  all  these  folks  back  again!  " 

It  wanted  but  a  few  moments  to  tea-time,  and  Gertrude 
was  selecting  fresh  napkins  from  a  drawer  in  the  china- 
closet,  when  Kitty  Hay  peeped  in  at  the  door  and  filially 
entered,  lending  by  the  hand  a  little  girl  neatly  dressed  in 
black.  Her  face  was  at  first  full  of  smiles  :  but  the  moment 
she  attempted  to  speak  she  burst  into  tears,  and  throwing 
her  arms  round  Gertrude's  neck,  whispered  in  her  ear, 
"Ob,  Gertrude,  I'm  so  happy!  i  came  to  tell  you!" 

"  Happy  ?  "  replied  Gertrude;  "  then  you  mustn't  cry." 

Upon  this  Kitty  laughed,  and  then  cried  again,  and  then 
laughed  once  more,  and  in  the  interval  explained  to  Ger- 
trude that  she  was  engaged — had  been  engaged  a  week  to 
the  best  man  in  the  world— and  that  the  child  she  held  by 
the  hand  was  his  orphan  niece,  and  just  like  a  daughter  to 
him.  "  And  onlv  think,''7  continued  she,  "it's  all  owing  to 
you." 

"  To  me?  "  said  the  astonished  Gertrude. 

"Yes;  because  I  was  so  vain  and  silly,  you  know,  and 
liked  folks  that  were  not  worth  liking,  and  did  n't  care  much 
for  anybody's  comfort  but  my  own;  and,  if  you  hadn't 
taught  me  to  be  something  better  than  that,  and  set  me  a 
good  example,  which  I've  tried  to  follow  ever  since,  he  never 
would  have  thought  of  looking  at  me,  much  less  lovingme, 
and  believing  I  should  be  a  fit  mother  for  little  Grade 
here,"  and  she  looked  down  affectionately  at  the  child,  who 
was  clinging  fondly  to  her.  "He  is  a  minister,  Gertrude, 
and  very  good.  Onlv  think  of  such  a  childish  creature  as 
I  am  being  a  minister's  wife  ! ''  The  sympathy  which  Kitty 
came  to  claim  was  not,  denied  her.  and  Gertrude,  with  her 

own  eves  brimming  with  tears,  assured    her  of  her  iiartici- 

•  •     i        • 
pation  in  her  joy. 

In  the  meantime  little  Grade,  who  still  dung  to  Kitty 
with  one  hand,  had  gently  inserted  the  other  within  that 
of  Gertrude,  who.  looking  down  upon  her  for  the  first  time, 
recognised  tin-  child  whom  she  had  rescued  from  perseou- 
tion  in  the  drawing-room  at  Saratoga. 

Kitty  was  charmed  with  tin.-  coincidence,  and  Gertrude, 
as  she  remarked  the  happy  transformation  which  had  al- 
ready been  effected  in  the  countenance  and  dress  of  the 
little  girl,  who  had  been  so  sadly  in  want  of  female  super- 


370  THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

intcndence,  felt  an  added  conviction  of  tlie  wisdom  of  the 
young  clergyman's  choice. 

Mr.  Craham's  cheerful  parlour  had  never  locked  .so  cheer 
ful  us  i.ii  that  evening.     The  weather  was  mild,  hut  a  light 
fire,  whi''h  had  been  kindled  on  Mr.  Clinton's  account,  did 
not    render   the    room   t<><>  warm.     It  i:fid,  however,  driven 
tli''  young  people  into  a  remote  corner,  leaving   the   neigh- 
bourhood of  t'ne  fireplace  to  Mrs.  Graham  and   Kmiiy,  who 
occupied  the  sofa,  and  Mr.  Clinton  and  Mr.  Graham,  whoss ' 
arm-chairs  were  placed  on  the  opposite  side. 

This  arrangement  enabled  Mr.  (iraham  to  converse  freely 
and  uninterruptedly  witii  his  guest  upon  SOUK-  grave  topic 
of  interest,  w'ni:*.'  h!s  talkative  wife  entertained  herself  and 
Kmiiy  hy  a  reoajiitulation  of  her  travels  and  adveiittires. 
On  atalile,  a?  thi-  furtlier  extremitv  of  the  room,  was  placed 
a  hir^e  portfolnjof  beautiful  eiiu'rav.ngs.  reeentlv  purchased 
and  ln'ought  home  l>y  Mr.  C,]-;ili;im.  and  representing  a 
series  of  Kuroii'-an  vlew.s.  fri-rtrude  and  Kittv  \vx-re  ir.i'ii- 
ing  them  carefully  over:  aiid  littl^  (iracie,  who  was  sitting 
in  Kittv's  lap.  and  Fanny,  who  was;  leaning  over  <  iert  rude'.-; 
shoulder,  were  listening  eagerly  to  tiie  young  ladies'  expla- 
nations and  comments. 

Occasionally  Isabel,  the  oidy  restless  or  unoccupied  per- 
son present,  would  l«-an  over  the  table  to  glance  at  the 
likeness  of.  some  f.-uniliar  spot,  and  e.v'uim,  "Kitty,  there's 
the  shop  where  1  bought  my 'nine  silk!''  or.  ''Kitty,  there's 
the  waterfall  that  we  visited  in  company  with  the  Ilu.-siau 
otli  :ers."  And  now  the  door/'pened,  and.  without  any  an- 
nouncement. Mr.  Amory  and  William  Sullivan  entered. 

Had  either  mad'-  h.s  appoaraiifc  singly,  he  would  have 
been  lo-iked  uji"n  wirh  astonishment  by  the  majoritv^f  the 
companv:  luit  i-omiiig  together,  and  with  an  apparently 
good  understanding  exi-tintj  lietweon  them,  there  was  nc 
counteiian  'e  present  wliich  expressed  any  emotion  but  that 
ff  surprise.  , 

Mr.   and    Mrs    C,raham,   however,  were    too    rnuch.   aecn?. 

t<>ni'-d    to   -oc.etv    to    b«-trav   ai  v    t'urt  hei1  evidence    of    that 

ment  thai     \  I     t:  a  m-  'luentai'V  glance.  ;»n<i. 

.   .  '  •  ••   .  <•• !    tii'-i  r.«i   w  I  h  due  pulitene.-.-  and    pi  « • 

The     I'm  iner       odded     -   .:••!•  s-;\    to    Mr.    Amorv, 

een    ', '    :    •     ?:,•/•,  •.-.'.  pre-'-n'i  d  him  t"  Mi. 

<  toll     i  M.    '     out ,        ••-.'•.'  I, g    t  he    existing    Coll- 

L«  i.irjn  wah  him  .<Ai),  and  wa.-:  preparing  to  go  throngs  the 


THE  LAMM.inilTEn.  371 


same  ceremony  in  Mrs.  Graham,  hut  was  saved  the  trouble 
as  she  had  not  i'ui  gotten  the  acquaintance  formed  at 
Baden-Baden. 

Willie's  knowledge  of  the  company  also  spared  the 
necessity  of  introduction  to  all  bat  Kniily;  and  that  being 
accidentally  omitted,  he  gave  an  arch  glance  at  Gertrude, 
and,  taking  an  offered  seat  near  Isabel,  entered  into  con- 
versation with  her,  Mr.  Aniory  being  in  like  manner  en 
grossed  bv  Mrs.  Graham. 

"  Miss  Gertrude,''  whispered  Fanny.  as  soon  as  the  in 
terrupted  composure  of  the  party  was  oner  more  restored. 
and  glancing  at  Willie  as  she  spoke.  "  that's  the  gentleman 
you  were  out  driving  with  this  afternoon.  I  know  it  is." 
continued  she.  as  .she  observed  Gertrude  change  colour  and 
endeavour  to  hu.-h  her,  while  she  looked  anxiously  round 
as  if  the  remark  had  been  overheard:  "  is  it  Willie,  Ger- 
trude ?  is  it  M  r.  Sullivan  1"  " 

Gertrude  became  more  and  more  embarrassed,  while  the 
mischievous  Kann\  continued  to  ply  her  with  such  ques- 
tions; and  Jsu'oel.  who  liad  jealously  noticed  that  Willie's 
eves  wandered  more  than  once  to  the  table,  turned  on  her 
such  a  scrutinizing  look  as  rendered  her  confusion  dis- 
tressing. 

Accident  came  to  her  relief,  however.  The  housemaid, 
with  the  evening  paper,  endeavoured  to  open  the  door, 
against  which  IKT  chair  was  placed,  thus  giving  her  an 
opportunity  to  rise,  receive  the  paper,  and  at  the  same  time 
an  unimportant  message,  \\hde  .-he  \vas  thus  engaged, 
Mr.  Clinton  left  his  chair  with  the  feeble  step  of  an  in- 
valid. crossed  ihe  room,  addressed  a  question  in  a  low  voice 
to  \\ilii".  and  receiving  an  aflirmatorv  leplv,  took  Isabel 
by  the  hand,  and  approaching  Mr.  Amorv,  exclaimed,  with 
deep  emotion,  ''Si!',  Mr.  Sullivan  tells  me  von  are  the  per- 
son who  saved  the  hfe  of  my  d,-,  lighter;  and  here  she  is  to 
thank  yon." 

Mr.  Amorv  rose  and  fhmir  his  arm  over  the  shoulder  and 
around  the  unit  of  Gertrude,  who  was  pas-ing  on  her  \\a\- 
to  hand  the  newspaper  |,,  Mr.  Graham,  and  uho.  not  hav- 
ing heard  the  remark  of  M  r.  (  'l;nlon.  received  the  caress 
Avith  a  .-wr>et,  smile  a>.d  an  upturned  face.  "  lleiv,".-aid 
lie,  "  Mr.  (  'b  n  ton,  is  !  he  p.  r.=:on  who  caved  t  hi  1  i  f»-  of  V"ti  r 
daughter.  It  is  true  that  I  .-'.vain  \\ith  her  to  tiie  shoir; 
but  it  WHS  under  the  mi.-tuken  imi.']ie.-s,ion  that  1  was  be..r 


372  77777  LAMPLIGHTER. 

ing  to  a  place1  of  safety  niv  own  darling  child,  whom  I 
little  suspec-ted  then  of  having  voluntarily  relinquished  to 
another  her  only  apparent  rhanee  of  rescue." 

''"Just  like  you,  Gertrude!  Just  like  you!'"  shouted 
Kitty  and  Fanny  in  a  breath,  each  struggling  to  obtain  a 
foremost  place  in  the  little  circle  that  had  gathered  round 
her. 

"  My  own  noble  Gertrude! "  whispered  Emily,  as,  lean- 
ing on  Mr.  Amory's  arm,  she  pressed  Gertrude's  hand  to 
her  lips. 

"Oh,  Gertrude!"  exclaimed  Isabel,  with  tears  in  her 
eyes, ''I  didn't  know.  1  never  thought " 

"Your  child:1"  cried  Mrs.  Graham's  loud  voice,  inter- 
rupting Isabel's  unfinished  exclamation. 

''Yes,  my  child,  thank  (!od!"  said  Mr.  Amory,  rev- 
erently; '''restored  at  last,  to  her  unworthy  father,  and — 
von  have  no  secrets  here,  my  darling  ?"— -Gertrude  shook 
her  head,  and  glan-vd  at  Willie,  who  now  stood  at  her  side 
• — "and  gladly  bestowed  bv  him  upon  her  faithful  and  far 
more  deserving  lover.'"  And  he  placed  her  hand  in  Willie's. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.  All  were  impressed  with 
the  solemnity  of  the  action.  Then  Mr.  Graham  name  for- 
ward, shook  each  of  the  young  couple  heartily  by  the  hand, 
and,  passing  his  sleeve  hastily  across  his  eyes,  sought  his 
customary  refuge  in  the  library. 

"Gertrude,"  said  Fanny,  pulling  Gertrude's  dress  to 
attract  her  attention,  and  spe, iking  in  a  loud  whisper,  "'are 
you  engaged?— arc  you  engaged  to  him?" 

"Yes,"  whispered  (lertrude,  anxious,  if  possible,  to 
gratify  Fannv's  curiositv  and  silence  her  questioning. 

"Oil,  I'm  so  glad!  Fin  so  glad !'"  shouted  Fanny,  dancing 
round  the  room  and  flinging  up  her  arms. 

"And  Fm  glad,  too!"  said  (Iracie,  catching  the  tone  of 
congratulation,  and  putting  her  mouth  up  to  Gertrude  for 
u  kiss. 

'''And  1  am  glad/"  sa'd  Mr.  Clinton,  placing  his  hands 
upon  those  of  Will.e  and  (I<Tt  rud>'.  wh.eh  were  still 
ela-ped  together,  "  that  the  noble  and  self-sacrificing  girl, 
wh«m  I  have  no  word,--  t»  thank,  and  no  power  to  repay, 
hits  reaped  a  worthv  reward  in  the  love  of  one  of  the  few 
ini'ii  with  whom  a  fond  father  mav  venture  wholly  to  trust 
the  happiness  of  his  child/' 

Exhausted  by  eo  much  excitement.,  Mr.  Clinton  now  coin- 


THE  LAMi'LliHITKR,  S73 

plained  of  sudden  faintness.  and  was  assisted  to  his  room 
bv  Willie,  who,  after  waiting  to  see  him  fully  restored, 
returned  to  receive  the  blessing  of  Emily  upon  his  new 
hopes,  and  hear  with  wonder  and  delight  the  circumstances 
which  attended  the  discovery  of  Gertrude's  parentage. 

For  although  it  was  an  appointment  to  meet  Mr.  Amory 
which  had  summoned  him  back  to  Boston,  and  lie  had  in 
the  course  of  their  interview  acquainted  him  with  the 
happv  termination  of  a  lover's  doubts,  lie  had  not,  until 
the  disclosure  took  place  in  Mr.  Graham's  parlour,  received 
in  return  the  slightest  hint  of  the  great  surprise  which 
awaited  him.  lie  had  felt  a  little  astonishment  at  his 
friend's  express  desire  to  join  him  at  once  in  a  visit  to  Mr. 
Graham's;  but  on  being  informed  that  he  had  made  the 
acquaintance  of  Mrs.  Graham  in  Germany,  he  concluded 
that  a  desire  to  renew  his  intercourse  with  the  family,  and 
possibly  a  slight  curiosity  to  see  the  lady  of  his  own  choice, 
were  the  only  motives  that  had  influenced  him. 

And  now,  amid  retrospections  of  the  past,  thanksgiving 
for  the  present,  and  hopes  and  aspirations  for  the  future, 
the  evening  passed  rapidly  away. 

"Come here,  Gerty!"  said  Willie,  "come  to  the  window, 
and  see  what  a  beautiful  night  it  is." 

It  was  indeed  a  glorious  night.  Snow  lay  on  the  ground. 
The  air  was  intensely  cold  without,  as  might  be  judged 
from  the  quick  movements  of  the  pedestrians  and  the 
brilliant  icicles  with  which  everything  that  had  an  edge 
was  fringed.  The  stars  were  glittering  too  as  thev  never 
glitter,  except  on  th"  most  intense  of  winter  nights.  The 
moon  was  just  peeping  above  an  old  brown  building — the 
same  old  corner  building  which  had  been  visible  from  the 
door-step  where  Willie  and  Gerty  were  wont  to  sit  in  their 
L'hildhoed.  and  from  behind  which  they  had  often  watched 
the  coming  of  the  same  round  moon. 

Leaning  on  Willie's  shoulder,  Gertrude  stood  gazing  until 
the  full  circle  was  visible  in  ;i  sp;t<v  of  clear  and  cloudless 
ether.  Neither  of  them  spoke,  but  their  hearts  throbbed 
with  the  same  emotion  as  they  thought  of  the  davs  that 
were  past. 

Just  then  the  gasman  came  quickly  up  the  street,  lit.  as 
by  an  electric  touch,  the  bright  burners  that  in  close  ranks 


57-i  ///A'  LA.MPJ.IUITTHTI 

liiii-il  either  side-walk,  and  in  ;i  moment  more  was  out  of 
sight. 

(iertrude  sighed.  "  It  was  no  such  eusvtusk  for  poor  old 
t'nele  True,"  said  she;  "there  have  been  great  improve- 
ments since  iiis  time  " 

''•There  have,  indeed !"  said  Willie,  glancing  round  the 
well-lit,  warm,  and  pleasantly-furnished  rooms  of  his  own 
and  (iertrude's  home,  and  resting  his  eyes  at  last  upon  the 
beloved  one  by  his  side,  whoso  beaming  i'aee  but  retleeted 
back  his  own  happiness — ••such  improvements,  (Jerty,  as 
we  oidy  dreamt  of  oner!  I  wish  the  dear  old  man  could 
be  here  and  share  them!" 

A  tear  stalled  to  (iertrude's  eye1,  but,  pressing  Willie's 
arm,  she  pointed  reverently  upward  to  a  beautiful,  bright 
star  just  breaking  forth  from  a  silvery  lilm  which  had 
hitherto  half  overshadowed  it;  the  star  through  which 
(iertrude  had  ever  fancied  she  could  discern  the  smile  of 
the  kind  old  man. 

"Dear  Uncle  True!"  said  she;  "his  lamp  still  burns 
brightly  in  heaven,  Willie;  and  its  light  is  not  yet  gone  out 
on 'earth!7' 

In  a  beautiful  town  about  thirty  miles  from  Boston,  ;ind 
on  the  shore  of  those  hill-embosomed  ponds  which  would 
be  immortalized  bv  the  poet  in  a  country  less  rich  than 
ours  with  such  sheets  of  blue  transparent  water,  there  stood 
a  mansion-house  ol  solid  though  ancient  architecture.  It 
had  been  the  property  of  1,'hilip  Amory's  paternal  grand- 
parents, and  the  earlv  home  and  sole  inheritance  of  his 
father,  who  so  cherished  the  spot  that  it  was  only  with 
great,  reluctance,  and  when  driven  to  the  act  by  the  spur 
<>f  poverty,  that  lie  was  induced  to  part  with  the  much- 
'  valued  e.-tate. 

To  reclaim  the  venerable  homestead,  repair  and  judi- 
ciously modernize  the  house,  and  fertilize  and  adorn  the 
grounds,  was  a  favourite  scheme  with  i'hilip.  His  ample 
means  now  rendered  it  practicable;  he  lost  no  time  in  put- 
ting it  into  execution,  and  the  spring  after  he  returned 
from  his  wanderings  saw  the  work  in  a  fair  way  to  be 


(iertrude's  marriage  had  taken  place; 
the  (Irahams  had  removed  to  their  house  in  town  (which., 
out  of  compliment  to  Isabel,  wiio  was  passing  the  winter 


T11K  LAMPLTGttTEtl  3?5 

with  her  aunt,  was  more  tlum  over  crow  (led  with  gay  com- 
pany), and  the  bustling  mistress  was  already  projecting 
changes  in  lier  husband's  country-seat. 

And  Emily,  who  had  parted  with  her  greatest  treasure, 
and  found  herself  in  an  atmosphere  which  was  little  in 
harmony  with  her  spirit,  murmured  not;  but,  contented 
with  her  lot,  neither  dreamed  of  nor  asked  for  outward 
change  until  Philip  came  to  her  one  day  and,  taking  her 
by  the  hand,  said  gently — 

'•This  is  no  home  for  you,  Emily.  You  are  as  much 
alone  as  I  in  my  solitary  farm-house.  We  loved  each  other 
171  childhood,  our  hearts  became  one  youth,  and  have  con- 
tinued so  until  now.  Why  should  we  be  longer  parted? 
Your  father  will  not  now  oppose  our  wishes;  and  will  you, 
dearest,  refuse  to  bless  and  gladden  the  lonely  life  of  your 
grey -haired  lover?" 

But  Emily  shook  her  head,  Avhile  she  answered,  with  her 
smile  of  ineffable  sweetness — 

"Oh  no,  Philip!  do  not  speak  of  it!  Think  of  my  frail 
health  and  my  helplessness/'' 

"Your  health,  dear  Emily,  is  improving.  The  roses  are 
already  coming  back  to  your  cheeks;  and  for  your  helpless- 
ness, what  task  can  be  so  sweet  to  me  as  teaching  you, 
through  my  devotion,  to  forget  it!  Oh,  do  not  send  me 
away  disappointed,  Emily!  A  cruel  fate  divided  us  for 
years;  do  not  by  your  own  act  prolong  that  separation! 
Believe  me,  a  union  with  my  early  love  is  my  brightest,  my 
only  hope  of  happiness  \" 

And  she  did  not  withdraw  the  hand  which  lie  held,  but 
yielded  the  other  also  to  his  fervent  clasp. 

'•My  only  thought  had  been,  dear  Philip,"  said  she, 
"that  ere  this  I  should  have  been  called  to  my  Father's 
home;  and  even  now  I  feel  many  a  warning  that  I  cannot 
be  very  long  for  earth;  but  while  1  stay,  be  it  longer  or 
shorter,  it  shall  be  as  you  wish.  No  word  of  mine  shall 
part  hearts  so  truly  one,  your  home  shall  be  mine." 

And  when  the  grass  turned  green,  and  the  flowers  sent 
up  their  fragrance,  !tm"l  the  birds  sang  in  the  branches, 
and  the  spring  gales  blew  soft  and  made  a  gentle  ripple 
on  the  water,  Emily  came  to  live  on  the  hillside  with 
Philip;  and  Mrs.  Ellis  came  too  to  superintend  all  things, 
and  especially  the  dairy,  which  became  henceforth  her 
pride.  She  had  long  since  tearfully  implored,  arid  easily 


876  TttK  LAMPLIGHTER 

obtained,  the  forgiveness  of  the  much-wronged  Philips 
and  proved,  by  the  humility  of  her  voluntary  confession, 
that  she  was  not  without  a  woman's  heart. 

Mrs.  Prime  pleaded  hard  for  the  cook's  situation  at  the 
farm,  but  Emily  kindly  expostulated  with  her,  saying — 

"We  cannot  all  leave  my  father,  Mrs.  Prime.  Who 
would  see  to  his  hot  toast,  and  the  fire  in  the  library?"  and 
the  good  old  woman  saw  the  matter  in  the  right  light  and 
submitted. 

And  is  the  long-wandering,  much-suffering,  and  deeply- 
sorrowing  exile  happy  now?  He  is;  but  his  peace  springs 
not  from  his  beautiful  home,  his  wide  possessions,  an  hon- 
ourable repute  among  his  fellow-men,  or  even  the  love  of 
the  gentle  Emilv. 

All  these  are  blessings  that  he  well  knows  how  to  pri/e; 
but  his  world-tried  soul  has  found  a  deeper  anchor  yet — a 
surer  refuge  from  the  tempest  and  the  storm;  for,  through 
the  power  of  a  living  faith,  he  has  laid  hold  on  eternal 
life.  The  blind  girl's  prayers  are  answered;  her  last,  best 
work  is  done;  she  has  cast  a  ray  from  her  blessed  spirit 
into  his  darkened  soul;  and  should  her  call  to  depart  soon 
come,  she  will  leave  behind  one  to  follow  in  her  footsteps, 
fulfil  her  charities,  and  do  good  on  earth  until  such  time 
when  lie  shall  be  summoned  to  join  her  again  in  heaven. 

As  they  go  forth  in  the  summer  evening  to  breathe  the 
balmy  air,  listen  to  the  winged  songster  of  the  grove,  and 
drink  in  the  refreshing  influences  of  a  summer  sunset,  all 
tilings  speak  of  a  holy  peace  to  the  new-born  heart  of  him 
who  has  so  long  been  a  man  of  sorrow. 

As  the  sun  sinks  among  gorgeous  clouds,  as  the  western 
light  grows  dim,  and  the  moon  and  the  stars  come  forth  in 
their  solemn  beauty,  they  utter  a  lesson  to  his  awakened 
soul;  and  the.  voice  of  nature  around,  and  the  still,  small 
voice  within  whisper  in  gentlest,  holiest  accents — 

"The  sun  shall  be  no  more  thy  light  by  day,  neither  for 
brightness  shall  the  moon  give  light  unto  thee:  but  the 
Lord  -hall  be  unto  thee  an  everlasting  light,  ana  thy  God 


"Thv  sun  shall  no  more  go  down,  neither  shall  thv  moon 
withdraw  itself;  for  the  Lord  shall  be  thine  everlasting 
light,  and  the  days  of  thy  mourning  shall  be  ended.'' 


xur 


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Abbot,    The.      I!y    Sir   Walter    Scott. 

Adam    Bede.      By    George    Eliot. 

Addison's   Essays.   15y  Joseph  Addison. 

^incid    of    Virgi!. 

j^Esop's   Fables. 

Alexander,    the    Great,    Life    of.      i?y 

John    Williams. 
Alfred,      the      Great,      Life      of.      By 

Thomas    Hughes. 

Alhambra,  The.  Washington  Irving. 
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All  Sorts  and  Conditions  of  Men 

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Alton    Locke.      By    Charles    Kingsley. 
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Anne  of  Geirstein.     Sir  Walter  Scott. 
Antiquary,     The.       Sir     Walter     Scott. 
Arabian   Nights'   Entertainments. 
Ardath.      By    Marie    Corclli. 
Arnold,   Benedict,   Life   of.   By   George 

Canning     Hill. 

Arnold's    Poems.     Matthew    Arnold. 
Around     the     World      in     the     Yacht 

Sunbeam.  By  Mrs.  Brassey. 
Arundel  Motto.  Mary  Cecil  Hay. 
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George    Macdonald. 
Attic    Philosopher.    Emile    Souvestre. 
Autocrat    of   the    Breakfast    '1  able.    By 

O.    W.    Holmes. 

Bacon's  Essays.  By  Francis  Bacon. 
Barnaby  Rudge.  By  Charles  Dickens. 
Barrack  Room  Ballads.  By  Rudyard 

Kipling. 

Beulah.      By  Augusta  J.   Evans. 
Mlack    Beauty.      By    Anna    Sewell. 
Hark    Dwarf,    The.    Sir    Walter    Scott. 
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thaniel Hawthorne. 
Bondsman,    The.      By   Hall    Caine. 
Book    of   Golden    Deeds.    By    Charlotte 

M.    V 
Boone.    Daniel,    Life   of.     By   Cecil    B. 

Hartley. 
Bride  of  Lammermoor.  By  Sir  Walter 

Scott. 

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Browning's    Poems.      (Robert.) 


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Murgomasters'  Wife.     George  Ebers. 
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My   Order   of   the    King.    By   Hugo. 
Myron's    Poems.      By    Lord    Byron. 
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Anthony     Fronde. 
Carson.     Kit,     Life     of.       By     Charles 

Burdett. 

Cary's   Poems.    (Alice   and   Phoebe.) 
Cast    Up   by   the    Sea.      Sir   S.    Baker.    • 
Charles   Auchester.      By    E.    Berger.     ' 
Character.      By    Samuel    Smiles. 
Charlemagne       (Charles      the      Great'), 

Life    of.    By    Thomas    llodgkin. 
Charles    O'Mallcy.    By    Charles    Lever. 
Chesterfield's       Letters.  By        Lord 

Chesterfield. 

Chevalier   de    Mai'son    Rouge.      By    Al- 
exander  Dumas. 
Children    of    the    Abbey.     By    Regina 

Maria    Roche. 

Chicot   die   Jester.      By   Alex.    Dumas. 
Child's      History      of      England.         By 

Charles    Dickens. 

Christmas    Stories.    Charles    Dickens. 
Cloister   and   the   Hearth.      By   Charles 

Reade. 

Coleridge's    Poems.       By    S.    T.     Cole- 
ridge. 

Columbus.    Christopher,    Life    of.      By 

Washington   Irving. 

Companions    of    Jehu,     The.      Dumas. 
Complete    Angler.    Walton    &    Cotton. 
Conduct    of    Life.     R.    W.    Emerson. 
Confessions    of   an    Opium    Eater.      By 

Thomas    de    Ouimey. 
Conquest    of    Granada.      By    Washing- 
ton  Irving. 
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U'm.    II.    Presc"tt. 
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Wm.    II.    Prescolt. 
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II.    Prcscott. 
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H.    Prescott. 
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Paikman,    Jr. 

Conspirators,   The.     Dumas. 
Consuclo.        By     George     Sand. 
Cook's    Voyages.    Captain    James   Cook. 
Corinne.       By    Madame    de    Stael. 
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Countess    <le     Charney.    Alex    Dumas. 

Countess    of    Ruilolstadt.    Gco.    Sand. 

Country    Doctor.    I'.y    II.    cle    Balzac. 

Courtship    of    Miles    Standish.     By    II. 
W.     Longfellow. 

»  ran  ford.       i;y    Mrs.    C-askell. 

'Crockett,  David.     An  autobiography. 

Cromwell,   Oliver,   Life  of.      By  Ed-.vin 
1'axlon    Hood. 

Crusades,    The.      By    George    W.    Cox. 

Daniel    Deroncla.      By   George   Eliot. 

Data  of   Ethics.     By   Herbert   Spencer. 

Daughter   of   an   Empress.      I!y   Louisa 
Muhlback. 

David    Copperfield.    Charles    Dickens. 

Days    of    ]'»ruce.    ]'>y   Grace   Aguilar. 

Deemster,    The.      By    Hall    Caine. 

Deerslayer,   The.     By    T.    F.    Cooper. 

Descent   of   Man.    By   Charles   Darwin. 

Discourses   of    Epictetus. 

Divine        Comedy.        The.  (Dante.) 

Translated    by    Rev.    II.    F.    Carey. 

Dombey    &     Son.     Charles     Dickens. 

Donal    Grant.      George    Macdonald. 

Donovan.      By    Edna    Lyall. 

Dove    in    the    Eagle's    Nest.      By   Char- 
lotte   M.    Yonge. 

Dream   Life.      By   Ik   Marvel. 

Dr.    Tekyll    and    Mr.    Hyde.    By    R.    L. 
Stevenson. 

Duty.      By   Samuel    Smiles. 

East   Lynn".    By   Mrs.    Henry   Wood. 

Education.     By    Herbert    Spencer. 

Egoist.       By    George    Meredith. 

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vMsie   Venner.      By    O.    W.   Holmes. 

Emerson's    Essays.       (Complete.) 

Emerson's    Poems.      R.    W.    Emerson. 

Essays   in   Criticism.    Matthew   Arnold. 

Essays    of    Elia.      By    Charles    Lamb. 

Evangeline.     By    II.     W.     Longfellow. 

Fair  Maid  of  Perth.   Sir  Walter   Scott. 

Fairly  Land   of  Science.   By  Arabella 
B.   Buckley. 


Faust.       (Goethe.) 

Felix    Holt.       l!y    George    Eliot. 

Fifteen  Decisive  Battles  of  the  World 
liy  K.  S.  Creasy. 

File    No.     113.       By    Emile    Gaboriau. 

First    Principles.      Herbert    Spencer. 

First    Violin,    By    Jessie    Fothergill. 

For   Lilias.      By   Rosa   N.    Carey. 

Forty-Five     Guardsmen.       Dumas. 

Foul    Play.      By    Charles    Reade. 

Fragments    of    Science.   John    Tyndal'. 

Franklin,  Benjamin,  Life  of.  Ai, 
autobiography. 

Frederick  the  Great  and  His  Court. 
By  Louisa  Muhlback. 

Frederick,  the  Great,  Life  of.  By 
Francis  Kugler. 

French    Revolution.    Thomas    Carlyle. 

From  the  Earth  to  the  Moon.  B> 
Jules  Verne. 

Garibaldi,  General,  Life  of.  By  Theo- 
dore Dwight. 

Gil   Bias.     A.    R.   Le  Sage. 

Gold   Bug,   The.     Edgar   A.   Poe. 

Gold    Elsie.      By    E.    Marlltt. 

Golden   Treasury.    By  T.   Palgrave. 

Goldsmith's    Poems.       . 

Grandfather's      Chair.     By     Nathaniel 

Hawthorne. 
Grant,     I'lysses     S.,     Life    of.       By    J. 

T.     lleadley. 

Gray's    Poems.      Thomas    Gray. 
Great   Expectations.     Charles    Dickens. 
Greek    Heroes.    Charles    Kingsley. 
Green    Mountain    Boys,    The.      By    D. 

P.   Thompson. 
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Gulliver's    Travels.      By    Dean    Swift. 
Guy    Mannering.      Sir    Walter    Scott. 
Hale,     Nathan,    the    Martryr    Spy.     By 

Charlotte    M.     llollouay.      ' 
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By   Thomas   Arnold. 
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/fen>rs   and   Hero-Worship.      By   Tlios. 

Carlyie. 

Hiawatha.    By    II.    \V.    Longfellow. 
Hidden    Hand.       By    Mrs.    South  worth. 
History     of     Crime.       Victor     IIui;o. 
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I-hmael.       P,y     Mrs.     South  wortli. 
It    Is    N'ev,  r    Too    Late    to    Mend.      ?,y 

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hine.     K:i  -  n  -     of     France,     Life 

i   f,       My     I -i-  d    A.    <  lt,i  r. 
Keats'     p.  cms.       lly    John     Keats. 
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Last    of    the    Rarona.    Ruhver-Lytton. 

Last  of  tTie  Mohicans.  I!y  James 
l-'c:'.imore  Cooper. 

Lee,  Gen.  Robert  K.,  Life  of.  By  G. 
Mercer  Adam. 

Lena    Rivers.      ]Iy    Mary  J.    Holmes. 

Les  Mist-rabies.  Vol.  I.  IJy  Vic- 
tor IliiK'o. 

Les  Miserables.  Vol.  II.  By  Vic. 
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Life   of  Christ.     By   V.   \V.    1'arrar. 
Life    of    Jesus.       By     Earnest     Renan. 
Li-ht     of     Asia.       Sir     Lduin     Arnold. 
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Lincoln.       Abraham,       Life      of.         By 

Henry    Ketciiam. 
Lincoln's     Speeches.         By    G.     Mercer 

Adam. 

Literature  and  Dogma.  Bv  Mat- 
thew Arnold. 

Little  D-irrit.  By  Charles  Dick- 
ens. 

Little       Minister,      The.         ijy      James 

M.      Harrie. 
Livinpstone,      David.        life     nf         Bv 

Thomas    Hughes. 

Longfellow's  Poems.  II.  \V.  Long- 
fellow. 

Lorna    Doone.      R.    D.    Blackmore. 
Louise        di-        la        Valliere.         Alex. 
Dumas. 

Lowell's    F'ocms.      T.    Rusdl    Lowell. 
Ltieile.      By    Owen    Mcrc'lith. 
Maearia.       Aii^u-ta    J.    Evans. 

'    •  's       T.itt  rary       Essays.         By 

T.     M.    Ma, 

Ma.nie   Skin,      llonore   de    Balzac. 
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Marius,  The  Epicurean.  By  Walter 
Pater. 

Marmion.       I!y     Sir     Walter     Scott. 

Marquis  of  Lossie.  Geo.  Mac- 
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Martin   Chuzzlewit.   Charles  Dickens. 

Mary.  Oueen  >:f  Scots,  Life  of. 
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"Carey. 

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(  Iriurin      of      Species.          Charles      Dar- 


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Rudyard     Kipling. 

Plato's     Dialogues. 

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Scott's    Pofins.      Walter    Scott. 
Second    Wife.    The.      F.   Marlitt. 
Seekers    After   Cod.      L.    \V.    Farrar. 
Self-Help.       Hy     Samuel     Smile-:. 
Self  Kaiserl.      By    Mr-.    Sonthwnrth. 
Seneca's    Moral-. 


Shakespeare's  Heroines.  Anna  Jame- 
son. 

Shelley's    Poems. 

Shirley.      By   Charlotte   Bronte. 

Sing  of  the  Four.  By  A.  Cona« 
Doyle. 

Silas   Marncr.      By  George   Eliot. 

Silence  of  Dean  Maitland.  B> 
Maxwell  Grey. 

Sir    Gibbie.      George    Macdonald. 

Sketch   Book.     By   Washington   Irving 

Socrates,    Trial    and    Death    of. 

Soldiers    Three.      Rudyard    Kipling 

Spy,    The.       By    James     F.     Cooper1. 

Stanley,  Henry  M.,  Life  of.  By 
A.  Montefiorc. 

Story  of  an  African  Farm.  By 
Olive  Schreiner. 

Story  of  John  G.  I'aton.  By  Rev. 
las.  I'aton. 


Surgeon's     Daughter,     The.       By     Sir 

Walter    Scott. 
Swincburnc's    Poems. 

Swiss  Family  Robinson.  By  Tear. 
Rudolph  Wyss. 

Taking     the     Bastile,     Alex.       Dumas. 

Talc  of  Two  Cities,  Chas.  Dick- 
ens. 

Tales  from  Shakespeare.  By 

Charles  and  Mary  Lamb. 

Tales  of  a  Traveller.  By  Wash- 
ington living. 

Talisman.      Sir   Walter   Scott. 

Tangle  wood         Tales.  N.         Haw- 

thorne. 

Tempest  and  Sunshine.  By  Mary 
J.  Holmes. 

Ten  Nights  in  a  Bar  Room.      By  T.   S. 

Arthur. 

Tennyson's    Poems. 
Ten    Years    Later,      Alex.    Duma'-. 
Terrible  Temptation.        Charles   Rcadr. 

Thaddeus  of  Warsaw.  By  lane 
Porter. 

Tin  Ima.      By  Marie  Corelli. 

Thirty  Years'  War.  Bv  Frederick 
Schiller. 

Thousand  Mil,*  ITp  the  Nile.  By 
Armlia  11.  Edwards, 


BURT'S  HOME  LIBRARY.     Cloth.     Gilt  Tops.     Price,  $1.OO 


Three   Guardsmen.     Alex   Dumas. 
Three   Men  in  a  Boat.     Jerome. 
Thrift.      By    Samuel    Smiles. 
Throne  of  David.     J.  H.   Ingraham. 
Toilers  of  the   Sea.     Victor  Hugo. 
Tom    Brown    at    Oxford.      By    Thomas 

Hughes. 
Tom      Brown's      School      Days.        By 

Thos.   Hughes. 
Tour      of      the       World       in       Eighty 

Days.      By    Jules    Yernc. 
Treasure      Island.         R.      L.      Steven- 
i  son. 

Twenty      Thousand      Leagues      Under 

the    Sea.      By   Jules    Verne. 
Twenty  Years  After.     Alex.   Dumas. 
Twice   Told   Tales.      N.    Hawthorne. 
Two   Admirals.      By   .[.    1".    Cooper. 
Two     years     Before     the     Mast.       By 

R.    II.    Dana,   Jr. 
Uarda.     By  George    Ehers. 
Uncle  Max.     Rosa  X.   Carey. 
Uncle     Tom's     Cabin.         By      Harriet 

Beechcr    Stowe. 

IV.der    Two    Flags.      By    "Ouida." 
Utopia.     By   Sir  Thomas  Moore. 
Vanity    Fair.      \Vm.    M.    Thackery. 
Vendetta.      By    Marie    Corelli. 
Vicar      of      Wakeficld.        By      Oliver 

Goldsmith. 
Vicomte    de     Bragelonne.       By    Alex- 

andre    Dumas. 

Views    A- Foot.      Bayard    Taylor. 
Villette.      By   Charlotte   Bronte. 
Virginians.     Wm.   M.  Thackeray. 
Walden.     By  Henry  D.  Thoreau. 


Wandering    Jew,    The.      Vol.    I.      By 

Eugene    Sue. 

Wandering   Jew,    The.      Vol.    II.      By 

Eugene    Sue. 
Washington    and    His    Generals.      By 

J.   T.   Headley. 

Washington,     George.     Life     of.       By 

Jared    Sparks. 

Water    Babies.      Charles    Kingsley. 
Water    Witch.      James    F.    Cooper. 
Waverly.      By   Sir   Walter   Scott. 
Webster,       Daniel,       Life       of.         By 

Samuel  M.  Schmucker. 
Webster's   Speeches.      (Selected). 
Westward  Ho.     Charles  Kingsley. 
We    Two.      By    Edna    Lyall. 
White  Company.     A  Conan  Doyle. 
Whites   and  the  Blues.      Dumas. 
Wliittier's   Poems.      J.   G.   Whittier. 
Widc^     Wide       World.         By      Susan 

Warner. 
William,      the      Conqueror,      Life      of. 

By    Edward    A.    Freeman. 
William,     the     Silent,     Life     of.       By 

Frederick   Harrison. 

Window  in   Thrums.     J,  M.   Barrie. 
Wing    and    Wing.      J.    F.    Cooper. 

Wolsey,      Cardinal,      Life      of.          By 
Mandell    Creighton. 

Woman  in   White.     Wilkie   Collins. 
Won    by    Waiting.      Edna    Lyall. 
Wonder   Book.     N.   Hawthorne. 
Woodstock.     By  Sir  Walter  Scott. 
Wordsworth's  Poems. 
Wormwood.     By  Marie  Corelli. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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